


L'Appel du Vide

by tunteeton



Series: The Untranslatables [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Be Careful What You Wish For, Consequences, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Kill Your Double, Dubious Science, M/M, Multi, Pining, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 80,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>l'appel du vide (french): lit. the call of the void. An instinctive urge to jump from high places.</p><p>An alternate Reichenbach ending, now with two Sherlocks.</p><p>This work is part two of a series and won't make the slightest bit of sense without knowledge of the first part. If you haven't done so yet, please read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1036256/chapters/2066452">Saudade</a> first!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Done Their Research

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so happy to finally be back with The Sequel! Thank you for everyone who has been waiting (more or less) patiently for me to start posting. You have all been stars!

Upstairs, behind a closed door, a rebellious old clock ticked away too loudly. Next to it, a phone was ringing, angry little bursts of demanding sound. Somewhere down below on the street people were walking and driving by, some of them peeking at themselves on the windows of Speedy's, some of them checking out the day's menu. For most of them, it was just another tired morning, filled with yawns and life's little stresses. Inside, between the floors, none of that mattered. Dust was settling.

It was very quiet on the stairs. John blinked at Sherlock, Sherlock blinked at John. His fingers, the ones that had gripped John's shoulder a moment ago like his very life depended on that touch, let gingerly go. John felt very cold and very, very lonely. He was afraid to open his mouth, or to let Sherlock out of his sight lest he disappear again. The Sherlock-behind-John's-back got over the shock first.

“Right,” he said, voice quavering just a little. “We need to get John upstairs. Get up, get moving, chop chop.”

The other Sherlock, the unexpected one, blinked one last time and leaned closer, eyes widening in alarm as he did so.

“Been in the water ten – no, twelve minutes. Thames, close to Greenwich, but the north bank. Exhibits classic symptoms of near drowning. Blue tint of skin, chest pains, lack of breath. Has vomited recently and – what's this – what the _hell_? Has been shot, and beaten, there are signs of earlier trauma – _what have you done to him_?”

The hands around John's shoulders tightened during Sherlock's rapid observations until John was smashed against the wet chest behind him, too stunned to fight the possessive gesture. Sherlock turned his furious face at the other Sherlock, and John understood what he was seeing. Pain, frustration and self-doubt were turned into reverse, rolled into an enraged ball of venom and spikes and sent flying downhill. He'd seen it in Cross Keys, just once, this coping mechanism of Sherlock's. He'd been a victim of friendly fire then, a convenient target easy to hurt. Now that blazing focus was taken elsewhere and John felt invisible between the two warring entities stuck on the staircase, the two individuals who would never, ever back down.

“I've done nothing.”

Sherlock snarled his contempt.

“What even are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock, and Sherlock frowned, highlighting the dark smudges under his eyes. 

“Don't be an id -,” he started, only to be cut off by John's pitiable cough. Reality kept sinking in, became more present by the second. He needed names. Differentiators. Some help please. A new brain would be brilliant. Sherlock's large palm settled over his shoulder, stabilising him.

“Oh Jesus,” he croaked, already tasting the catastrophe that was to come, that was just around the corner, no, was already upon them. This was – no. This couldn't be happening. The universe, either of them, couldn't be this cruel. Any moment now, he would wake up and be drowned and grateful about it.

Downstairs, a door opened, shattering their little bubble of terrified impossibility.

“Sherlock, dear, what is it? I heard noises – oh.”

All three men on the stairs froze and turned around. John groaned. Apparently, time to adjust wouldn't be a thing he was allowed.

“Mrs Hudson,” he said, managing to make her name sound like the lamest apology ever. “Hello.”

“John!” She exclaimed, wringing her hands together. “Sherlock!”

A moment of pause, then a much more unsure, “Sherlock?”

“Hello, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock answered, clearly aiming for a business-like voice and missing by mile.

“I am Sherlock Holmes!” Protested Sherlock. John groaned again. His brain seemed to be permanently misfiring, trying to at turns accept the situation and then deny it again. He was back. Somehow, he had come back, and he'd taken Sherlock with him. Here. With another Sherlock. Two Sherlocks. Two. And he had – with the other one – he had actually – oh, fuck.

“You never told me you had a twin?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“Even _you_ can't be blind enough to –.”

“Sherlock,” John's warning was nearly a reflexive reaction. Old habits resurfaced fast. 

Mrs Hudson's face cleared up and she shook her head briskly. “Never mind that now. John! We've been so worried! Where have you been? And look at you two, you're soaked! Why don't you boys go upstairs, I'll be right there, I'll just go and get some tea for you.”

The idea of tea, of any liquid inside his throat, spurred on the next coughing fit. He realised there were words spoken over his head, angry words, but then he felt hands under his arms, both of his arms, and he was dragged up.

“He doesn't want to be carried,” said Sherlock, voice glacial, and John leaned thankfully against him.

“I know,” answered the other one. John froze. He was leaning on the wrong shoulder, wasn't he? He was. He had to be. And how on earth was he to explain the concept of _right_ shoulder to Sherlock?

Before he could get this newest stint of panic really going the two men surprised him by moving in a sullen unison towards the same goal. The fact that said goal was getting John upstairs and planting him on his chair was quite embarrassing, but when they reached the chair, the original chair, his very own, he almost teared up for the sheer beauty of it. It was real. He was at home for good. He hadn't lost this life after all.

For a moment, John was brilliantly alone in his head, luxuriating in the feelings of home and rightness oozing from the room. His body relaxed into the comfort of the chair. But then Sherlock was there, wrangling his wet jacket and trousers off him. Sherlock lit the fire. Sherlock found a blanket to throw over him. Sherlock forced a glass of scotch into his hand. It was a whirlwind of Sherlocks, and quite soon he lost the thread of which one was which. There would just be a narrow wrist reaching over his shoulder, tucking the corner of the blanket up, long fingers checking for his pulse or looking for any abrasions on his scalp, grey eyes staring at him in silence. The room grew warmer. He hadn't realised he had been shivering until the tremors stopped. His fingers had a death-grip on the glass, and somehow that was comforting even though he had no intention of letting the stuff get near his mouth.

“You should find something dry to put on,” he croaked at said glass. The golden liquid inside sloshed around its edges. His throat felt dry and patched, and wasn't that idiotic when his lungs still rasped with the salty water? “And you should eat something.”

He didn't bother specifying whom he meant. Sherlock was a genius. Let them figure it out.

The room behind him remained deadly quiet. He almost heard the 'Shut up, John' in his mind, which made its absence even more jarring. Maybe they hadn't heard him. Maybe they were all in shock. At the moment, disaster seemed the only likely outcome. Holmeses famously didn't get along with each other and the start had been anything but promising. How was John to decide where his loyalties belonged? After all, it was Sherlock. They were both Sherlock.

He loved Sherlock. He had only recently learned to think of these two as separate persons, and never in a shared context. This was going to be awkward as hell.

It already was.

The silence was so heavy with unvoiced blame he couldn't see for a second. He probably made a sound, because the next thing he knew, the quiet had shattered.

Dexterous hands took the glass away from him and set it on the table. He raised his head, and still they were there, the two silhouettes of the same person. This wasn't just reverse cultural shock. John had lived through that before, after Afghanistan, and this was something much deeper. He wondered how many times the very roots of his beliefs could be destroyed before he'd finally turn insane. Because he had already accepted the situation once – had been forced to, given the circumstances. In doing so he had also accepted this weird idea of parallel universes, of more than one version of the same person walking around. But now he realised that he hadn't actually ever thought it through. Because this.

This was something else.

For starters, he had never imagined it would come to this, to such a literal scene. Sherlock Holmes, facing Sherlock Holmes. They could have been twins, except even no identical twins were that similar. They had the same posture, the same set of shoulders, the same mistrustful look on their faces. Identical furrowed eyebrows, sharp glances, irritated mouths. Hands, hold the same way. Mirror images of each other. One stood in the kitchen and the other near the windows, as much space between them as possible, and John stuck there in the middle like some kind of no man's land.

“So -,” he started, not really knowing where that sentence was supposed to lead, if it in fact could have any acceptable ending at all.

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” rasped Sherlock-by-the-window, the man who detested both repetition and the stating of the obvious. John gave him a sharp glance.

God, but he looked terrible. John stared, forced himself past the shock and the exhaustion. Sherlock really looked awful. He had stubble, _stubble_ , and he never did, John had even doubted his ability to grow one, and his eyes were wild, red-rimmed, his cheeks sunken in. And the way his voice had sounded like, almost gone, worn into threadbare remains of what it had used to be. Defeated.

That settled it. Yes, the situation was beyond ridiculous. There were two Sherlocks in 221B Baker Street when the whole of London was barely able to contain one of them on a good day. John had nearly drowned. There had been talk about shooting. Every inhale hurt. Every exhale burnt his ribs. Every moment in between felt like falling, like dissolving into its own absurdity. Fuck all of that. Deal with it later. Fix this first. He cleared his throat, ignored the way it protested.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Sherlock, of course, huffed in annoyance and refused to say anything.

“Three – no, four days ago, judging by the date of the newspaper on the floor,” answered the other one, coming to stand next to his chair with quiet feet. “He crashed on the sofa there, reading the paper. Specifically the classified ads, so he was looking for something or someone in particular. Kicked the pillows to the floor in his sleep. I always do that. The rings around his eyes only appear after a prolonged period without rest and considering his mental state he has been running himself dry for a significant time. You want to ask about food, too. You always do. Go on.”

Sherlock sneered and turned his back. The effect would have been more dramatic if he didn't have to steady himself on the nearby table, if his shoulders didn't droop quite so clearly. John shivered. How had he missed this all? 

“Nothing much,” the other Sherlock continued his monologue. “Did you note his lips? He's been chewing them, I do that when I'm hungry and distracted. His skin looks quite feverish, not to mention the obvious signs of malnutrition. So I'd say tea and dry bread at most – quick fixes when his body absolutely demanded them or Mrs Hudson wouldn't stop pestering him. Biscuits, too. There are crumbles everywhere. He must have been on a unique cas -”

“That's enough!” Sherlock exploded, still holding onto the table. “I don't know who you are, I don't know what's going on in here, but I won't listen to such triteness in my own home! You brought John back, thank you very much, now leave.”

John flinched. He didn't doubt a word of what he was told and started to get suspicions about the nature of his friend's latest case. Not eating, not sleeping, those signs tended to mean either a serial killer or a missing person. A specific missing person maybe, disappeared from a warehouse in Havering under inexplicable conditions? 

Maybe John hadn't been the only one who had taken the separation badly?

He glanced at the wall over the sofa. It was once again filled with maps, photos, newspaper clips and Sherlock's omnipresent little multicoloured threads. Everything was arranged in straight lines and perpendicular angles. It had never looked more organised, or more despairing. Order didn't suit his friend. John's hands grew cold.

“Sherlock,” he tried. “Please. This is, I can't explain this. I'm sorry. This, too, is Sherlock.”

“Oh shut up, John,” Sherlock barked back, refusing to look at them. “You're out of your mind. You've been gone for two months, you've been duped, misled, you aren't making any sense.”

“And you have trouble standing up,” the other Sherlock observed mildly.

“Just _look_ at him,” John pleaded. Sherlock saw everything. Deduced. Whatever. He would see this, too. Somehow, John had to help him understand.

The orderly wall mocked him in its desolate loneliness. He had thought Sherlock would be happy about such an extraordinary case. He had thought Sherlock would be all right.

He couldn't look at the maps and the photos any longer. He grasped for something, anything, that would help.

Oh.

Maybe that. 

“Remember what you told me,” he tried. “About the impossible, and the improbable. Just look at him!”

“A disguise,” Sherlock countered, almost gently. “A mask.” He turned to face his double, and his voice was terribly even when he addressed him. “So who are you really? Why did you take John? There was no ransom note. What do you want from us?”

“I'm you,” Sherlock insisted. “Stop being blind and look! Do as he says.”

“I'm not really interested in you!” Sherlock roared, and at last there was some emotion in his voice. Never mind the fact that it was rage, at least he was finally reacting. He breathed harshly and looked around the room, eyes flying over the walls and furniture, coming to rest on John. Three quick steps took him to stand in front of the chair, face torn in anguish.

“And you! You aren't him either, are you? How stupid do you both think I am?” 

“Woohoo, boys! Here comes tea!”

John snapped his mouth shut and swallowed. Retreat, retreat. Give him evidence, something he can work with. But first – 

“Sit down,” he barked, and only then realised he had used the voice _his_ Sherlock seemed to like, which might have been a mistake. But Sherlock did sit, if for no other reason then for the surprise of seeing the other one drop to his knees on the spot just as Mrs Hudson manoeuvred herself into the flat.

She carried a tea tray loaded with biscuits, croissants and sandwiches, a huge kettle and her better tableware. She set them down and proceeded to be mother, filling cups and distributing sandwiches, ignoring the two Sherlocks glaring at each other like it was an everyday occurrence down in 221A. John breathed, and breathed, and when his heart descended back to its own place from his throat he started again from the beginning.

“Ask me,” he offered. “Any little trivia you want to. Ask me about the tobacco ash, or Mr Hudson. He did too, you know.”

“I can't see what Frank has to do with anything,” Mrs Hudson muttered to herself, cutting generous pieces of the carrot cake by the side table. 

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, an intense look of concentration on his face.

“No,” he answered at last. “I don't have to. I'm sorry about that. John.”

“Oh,” John replied, surprised. “Okay. Good. Fine. Great. This is going better than the last time, then.”

“Excuse me,” said the-Sherlock-sitting-on-the-floor.

“No offence meant,” John added quickly. “The circumstances were different.”

“Humph. But that still doesn't explain you,” Sherlock argued, pointing at his double with an accusing finger. The gesture was returned with half a biscuit.

“Your first memory was about watching telly with Mycroft,” Sherlock answered. “It was about that German cartoon detective with the green suit and the long chin, and Mycroft pointed out all the things he got wrong. That was about two thirds of the whole thing. You got your first violin when you were five. You would have wanted a cello, but Mummy insisted on the violin. You wanted to hate it but you couldn't. Redbeard died when you were –,”

“So you've done your research,” Sherlock interrupted, face darkening again. “I grant you that. But you still aren't explaining.”

“No, I am,” he insisted. “It's you who isn't listening.” 

“So you aren't a twin, then?” Mrs Hudson asked and offered him a piece of the cake. “I saw a document about that sort of thing once. Very sci-fi, as they say. Also something about trousers, I didn't quite catch that part.”

“Shut up, Hudders,” Sherlock muttered irritably. “Your input isn't helping.”

“Don't be like that,” she chided him. “It's easy to prove. They gave some very helpful tips in that programme I saw.”

“Oh?” John asked.

“Don't encourage her!”

Mrs Hudson bumped Sherlock's bony, moping shoulder. “Moles!” she declared.

“Moles,” Sherlock repeated with a flat intonation. “Of course. How exciting.”

“No, I think she has a point,” the other Sherlock cut in. “I could be wearing some freakishly advanced mask as you pointed out, but that wouldn't explain the placement of moles. Even identical twins don't have moles in the same places. If, however, I am who I claim to be, we should find similarities.” He gave Mrs Hudson a brilliant smile. She beamed back at him.

“Do you want more tea, dear?”

“No, thank you. I think it's time to prove a point.”

“More tea please,” Sherlock chimed in quickly and got another slap for his troubles. Meanwhile, the other Sherlock had put his cup down and was pulling the wet shirt over his head. Everybody stared, then turned to look at the other one.

“Go on then,” Mrs Hudson encouraged him.

“I fail to see what point this is meant to prove,” Sherlock muttered, but his eyes were mapping the bared skin of his double, widening the longer he looked.

“Hugh Everett,” John told him, echoing the words Sherlock had used in his own explanation.

“You can't be serious!”

“Just take your shirt off.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock did. The room went very quiet for a moment.

“Would you look at that,” Mrs Hudson sighed happily. “My boys!”


	2. Of Brotherly Relations

“I'm not going to shake hands,” Sherlock declared, squirming back into his ratty t-shirt. “And your explanation has holes the size of the Eye in it. Hugh Everett, really? That book must be at least fifty years old by now! I do assume even physics has advanced since then.”

“It was the only book I own on the subject,” Sherlock replied, holding his own, wet shirt away from his scrawny body. “And the only theory I was familiar with. We don't know if it really fits. Mrs Hudson.”

She took the shirt and bounced towards the book cases on the far wall. “And what about you, dear?”

“What what about me?”

“Do you own that book? This is exciting!”

“The leftmost case, second shelf from the bottom, brown cover,” John told her without looking. She found it quickly and started reading on the spot.

“John,” Sherlock said, voice very close to his back.

“Yeah?”

“You never paid any attention to that book.”

“This seems very technical,” Mrs Hudson complained.

“Quantum physics,” the other Sherlock answered, stealing another slice of the carrot cake. He marched into the kitchen and peeked at the microscope. “What's this, dirt?”

“Don't touch that!” Sherlock snapped. 

“Well I never had to, before,” John said, feeling very tired. “Why would I? I never imagined this would happen.”

“But what _did_ happen?” Sherlock insisted, turning back to him. “Why did you –”

“I'm afraid I don't quite understand this,” Mrs Hudson continued, leafing through the pages and sounding disappointed.

“Well what did you except?” Sherlock asked, voice boiling with frustration. “Day time show science? More trousers? It's literally _quantum physics_ , pure theoretical speculation, no one is meant to understand it!”

“He always becomes resentful when he has to read something twice,” said Mycroft in the doorway.

Something clattered in the kitchen.

“What?” Mycroft demanded. “What are you all staring at?”

John groaned. He really would have appreciated a bit more time before having to do this.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock countered. He stepped away from John, and whatever it had been that Sherlock had been trying to ask him was gone for now. 

“I did call,” Mycroft answered. “But you never picked up. I'm here because of him.”

The pit of John's stomach turned heavy. Oh no. There went their last chance of preparation.

“Him? How the hell do you know about him?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well it's not that difficult when he's sitting right there,” Mycroft replied icily, pointing his umbrella at John who sighed in secret relief. “What did you expect me to do? You were caught in a dozen cameras, dragging him across the city. We had a deal, Sherlock. No heroics. I kept my word. What about you?”

A slow, indulgent smile bloomed on Sherlock's face. In the corner, Mrs Hudson giggled, hugging the book against her chest. In John's mind, however, warning bells were still ringing. Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, didn't react well to Mycroft. He remained unseen for now, but that would change. The fact that he hadn't yet revealed himself spoke volumes. Moods would change, answers be demanded. There was no way Mycroft wouldn't notice something was off.

“What?” Mycroft demanded.

“Just savouring the moment,” his brother sighed, unaware of the storm of trepidation going off in his friend's mind.

Mycroft threw his arms up in exasperation and stalked into the room to stare at John. Not a word was shared, but less than four seconds later he turned back to Sherlock.

“Shot _and_ drowned?” He demanded. “You've had a busy night! Any other little surprises you've neglected to share?”

“Tea, anybody?” John asked, getting up with some difficulty, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. Mycroft ignored him as was his wont. Now that John was back, he had apparently instantly stopped being significant in his eyes.

“I didn't do a thing,” Sherlock insisted, still grinning.

“Don't be childish! We have footage of you two –”

“I'll put the kettle on.”

“I think there's still some in the –,” Mrs Hudson cut in from the sofa.

“Yeah, but I want PG Tips now,” John talked over her, raising his voice. Sherlock gave him a sharp, questioning look. John didn't return it.

“Excuse us,” Mycroft complained, exasperated. “Some of us are trying to have a conversation here.”

“Do go on,” Sherlock drawled, his eyes still on John. “This is fascinating.”

The journey to kitchen wasn't very long at all, but John was exhausted when he finally got to the counter. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the door to the bathroom was open. John continued nonchalantly that way after gathering his breath by the table. In the living room, the two arguing voices rose. He stepped into the bathroom.

Sherlock, still shirtless, was leaning against the sink. His face was pale and his eyes serious in the mirror. When John came in, shutting the door after him, Sherlock turned around and sank to his knees in front of him like he couldn't help it, letting out a shivering exhalation. Instinctively, John's hand came to rest on his head, drawing it closer. Sherlock accepted the touch, even pushed into it a little. His hands rose to John's hips, skin forming little dips over his bare collar bones. John drew his blanket over them both, shielding Sherlock from the world the best he could.

“You all right?” He murmured.

“It's,” Sherlock started, voice muffled against John's stomach. “It's – I was doing fine, I think, and then he came. It's always him. Even now. Even here. Why is it always him?”

“You don't have to go out there,” John offered. “You don't have to meet him today.” _God knows there's enough to take in already_ , he thought, combing the damp, dark curls with his digits.

Angry screeching notes echoed from behind the door.

“He's going to leave soon, anyway,” John continued. “He can't stand it when Sherlock abuses the violin.”

“Don't do that,” Sherlock protested, his fingernails digging into John's skin under the blanket.

“Do what?”

“Talk about me in the third person. Like I'm not here.”

“But – you aren't. Or, I don't know, you are there also? Or, he is?” John shook his head. “I don't _know_ , Sherlock. This is –”

“Unexpected? Problematic?”

“I was going to say weird, but yeah, those too,” John smiled. His other hand dropped lower, caressed the little wisps of hair on Sherlock's nape. He had always loved that spot, even Before. He had looked at it and been miserable because there had been no way he'd ever be allowed to touch it. He tugged at the curls, just a little, just because he could. They instantly sprang back into position.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. They listened to the horrible sounds coming through the door, clinging to each other and pretending they didn't.

“Paganini, I believe,” Sherlock observed.

“It's actually something?” John didn't try to keep the incredulousness off his voice. The noise resembled music only by the virtue of being loud.

“He missed you horribly,” Sherlock sighed. “He's been blaming himself ever since you disappeared. I don't think I've ever –,” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“What?”

“I don't think I've ever felt that bad,” Sherlock said quietly.

John stared at the man kneeling in front of him, listened to the man murdering his violin in the other room. His mind still mutinied at the idea of them being the same person, but if what Sherlock said was true, if John had been missed as acutely as he had missed his friend, then –

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, cutting off his trail of thought by getting back on his feet, suddenly hovering a head taller again, “time for my grand entrance.”

“But –”

“No, John. It's only going to become harder if I postpone it. This is Mycroft. It's always better to deal with him straight away. Sink or swim.” His eyes took in John's still wet hair, pallid skin. “Sorry. Maybe not the best metaphor.”

“No, it's fine,” John answered tiredly. “But are you sure about this? Only I remember the last time, and it really wasn't –,”

“He's not the same,” Sherlock said with some fierceness. “I just have to remember that, he's not the same. Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” John replied, a little taken aback that his friend even felt the need to ask. Sherlock stepped past him to open the door, but John got hold of his wrist. This needed to be fixed.

“Hey.”

He was spared a frowning glance.

“We're in this together, remember?”

Sherlock hesitated, hand on the door knob. “But he was yours first. You were his. You told me, and I do remember.”

He went rigid when John's palm rose to his neck and pulled his head down. He didn't seem to believe it was happening until John's insistent lips met his and even then his mouth was a little shy, carefully withdrawn.

“Come on,” John drawled against his lips, tugged at the dog tags with his other hand. “Don't give me that. You're mine, aren't you?”

Sherlock made a little agreeing sound.

“I get to kiss my things when I want to,” John told him. “Especially the ones that I love.”

It was, apparently, the right thing to say, because his lover, his confused beloved Sherlock, gave a little sigh and melted to the touch, gave himself over to be kissed. John took his hands and put them on his own shoulders, and Sherlock wrapped himself around John, just a little desperately. Long limbs pulled him closer, and John deepened the kiss, demanded to be taken seriously.

“That's my good boy,” John whispered when Sherlock finally, gratefully, ceded his control away, closed his eyes and surrendered. It still felt ridiculous to say these things, especially here, but the little whine that escaped his lover at them boosted his confidence. 

“Never like this,” John told him furiously, biting the words into the accepting mouth offered to him. “We were friends, good friends. The best. He was my best friend. I hope he still is. But we were never _this_.”

He didn't release Sherlock before the violin had quietened, before they were both breathless. A quick glance at the bathroom mirror confirmed that they looked completely snogged. The tell-tale pink spots on Sherlock's cheeks practically glowered, and his own lips felt hot and rough. There would be no way the two Holmeses in the living room wouldn't notice. Heck, even Mrs Hudson couldn't be spared. She would finally have her long-awaited squeal.

“Um,” he said.

“Right,” Sherlock murmured. “Into battle, then.”

And with those words, he opened the room and stepped into the kitchen, leaving John sputtering and entertaining his second thoughts in his wake.

Well. It was bound to come out sooner than later, anyway.

“Right you are,” he declared, more to himself than anyone else, and followed his lover out of the door.

–

“- not even doing me the courtesy of mentioning you had located him,” Mycroft was finishing something that had to be the tail end of a long speech. Sherlock sat in his chair, looking bored. Mrs Hudson was sitting on the sofa, still leafing through the book. This was the one show she wouldn't miss.

“Actually,” Sherlock said, next to John.

Mycroft glared at the Sherlock-in-the-living-room, who gave him an innocent look.

“What? I was just sitting here, listening to you embarrass yourself.”

“I had really thought you had outgrown this ridiculous –”

“It wasn't him,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft stopped. He frowned at Sherlock, who had certainly kept his mouth closed, cocked his head to the right and then, very slowly, turned around. Sherlock stared at his brother, a look of amusement painting his face younger than it really was.

Mycroft's eyes seemed glued to the apparition in the kitchen, refusing to accept the double of his brother standing there. John was pretty sure even his formidable brain had stopped for the moment. Because here was another Sherlock Holmes, bright and real, clad only in soggy pyjama pants and John's dog tags, his lips still kiss-bruised. Deduce that, British Government. John counted the seconds again. He got to six before Mycroft turned back. Mrs Hudson was hiccuping, clasping the book with both hands, not looking at them but at Mycroft. Small mercies there. A couple of steady steps took the oldest of the brothers to the other end of the sofa. He sat down in complete silence. The look he gave John was one of pure bafflement. It really didn't sit well on his features.

“Mycroft,” John said, his voice shaking just a little. “Meet Sherlock.”

Which, when he later thought about it, was rather a moronic thing to say at the moment. For once, however, Mycroft didn't point out his unbearable stupidity. 

“What have you done?” He instead asked with a voice betraying that he fully believed this was all some terrible experiment of Sherlock's. “Did you finally manage to clone yourself? No, of course not. Nothing was stolen from Baskerville. And the – flavour – is certainly unexpected.”

“Flavour?” Sherlock asked, glancing at the pair in the kitchen. His eyes widened, his grin vanished. John gave him a sheepish almost-smile. Hello, Sherlock. One more surprise for you today.

“The theory of universal wave function,” Mrs Hudson read from the book, oblivious to the other revelation shared around her.

“Can no one silence that woman?”

“Shut up, Hudders,” Sherlock echoed his brother, Mycroft's expression of pure disbelief mirrored on his face.

“This next sentence uses the word 'function' way too many times,” Mrs Hudson continued, frowning. “Anyway, Mr Holmes, you've got two little brothers now. Good luck with them. I'm off for a walk with Mr Chatterjee.” With that, she gathered the remnants of the breakfast and excused herself downstairs, muttering as she went. 

Sherlock took a jerky step, then another, positing himself for inspection next to John's empty chair. John hesitated a moment before taking his seat, covering his body with the blanket from the prying eyes of the brothers. In his chair, Sherlock let out a low, long sigh. John found that he couldn't look at him right then, instead fixing his eyes on the floor between the chairs and the sofa.

Mycroft was the first to recover. He cleared his throat, reached for an impassive tone of voice.

“Increased perspiration, inability to hold eye contact, twitchy movements,” he catalogued coolly, twirling umbrella travelling from hand to hand between his open knees. “Are you high?”

John's breath hitched. Whatever he had expected the first question to be, it hadn't been this.

“What I am or am not is none of your business,” Sherlock replied, quick and precise. John saw, however, that Mycroft had been right. His not-brother's expression was just a tad too defiant, his chin held half an inch too high. The muscles in his arms and legs were hard as stone, ready for a fight. Mycroft might not know, or even begin to guess, the true reason for Sherlock's agitated behaviour, but to John it was all too clear. And damn, couldn't Mycroft even have waited for them to get Sherlock into dry clothes before springing this interrogation on him?

“No brother of mine is left to wander the streets of London alone while under the influence,” Mycroft stated without missing a beat. Sherlock took three steps back, pale and alarmed. John couldn't help twisting his body, following him with his eyes.

“I'm not your brother.”

“So you don't deny the drugs abuse, then?”

The look in Sherlock's eyes reminded John of a pure-bred horse in distress, a beast ready to bolt. He got up again to step forward, to position himself between the quarrelling Holmeses. Mycroft raised his umbrella without moving from the sofa, forbidding him to come any closer. He smiled, a very Mycrofty smile, not pleasant at all. All remaining colour drained from Sherlock's skin.

 _The most dangerous man_ , John had time to think, remembering the threats the other Mycroft had made. _No less than an armada of lawyers, two wings of the military and more agents than you have self-worth issues_ indeed. That Mycroft hadn't taken the sudden appearance of Captain John Watson, recently killed in action in Afghanistan, very well. How would this one react to a surprise much more personal?

Not like John had expected, no. Because the next question wasn't at all what he had feared. 

“Are you the brother of Mycroft Holmes?”

The other Sherlock, the one not being questioned, gave a loud cough, and John almost bit his tongue in half. That voice – hadn't been cruel at all. No, it had been almost kind, almost soft. How did Mycroft go from ice to this in a split of a second?

Sherlock nodded cautiously, the movement seemingly helpless. Yes, yes he was. Of course he was. Mycroft's lips formed a thin grimace.

“Welcome to the family, little brother. Now, I repeat my question. Are you high?”

The ice was back, and John took a step forward without thinking. Sherlock was unclad, unprepared and undefended. He couldn't accept this to go on any longer. Mycroft had got his information. It was time for his self-proclaimed brother to have his sorely needed rest.

“You should leave now,” John told him. The other Sherlock snorted, full of derision. John turned on him at once.

“And you keep your mouth shut, neither of you have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about my brother,” Mycroft replied, voice made of stubborness and stone.

“I don't care what you think you're doing, I don't care if you have half of the Queen's Guard waiting on the stairs, this visit is over. Leave, Mycroft. Now.”

There must have been something new in his voice, something born out of confusion morphed into determination, longing forged into resolution. Something made of steel, something that forced even Mycroft Holmes to take notice. He stopped, turned and gave him a searching look. John stared right back, unblinking and unflinching. Let him see. John was past caring about appearances. Sherlock needed to be left alone.

Neither of Sherlocks as much as moved a finger.

“Ah. I see,” Mycroft said at last, nodding more to himself than to John before starting towards the door. “I'll send someone over with medical equipment. Do you even know you're bleeding? Also, it should go without saying, but you two will not leave the flat at the same time, certainly not on each other's company. Sherlock, I'll call you later. Do remember to answer, I dare say it's on both of our interests.”


	3. Comforting Things

_I can't believe it's scarcely past nine_ , John mused when Mycroft closed the door after himself. _Some people are only just getting out of bed, and here we go. For God's sakes, I'm_ ready _for bed at this point!_

“So he knows now,” he commented aloud, trying to postpone the awkward moment that was to come. _Yes, Sherlock. I was in the bathroom snogging your double while your brother took his frustrations out on you. Sorry about that._

Sherlock sat in his chair, looking at him like he was some kind of magical creature never before witnessed by mankind. He did glance at the other Sherlock every few seconds, but his eyes always returned to John, as if drawn there. He was staring at John's face. No. He was staring at John's lips, the lips that were still kiss-swollen from the little reassurance round in the bathroom. John wanted to cover them with his hand. He wanted to flee upstairs, put a pillow over his eyes and ears and hope that everything would miraculously sort itself out while he'd sleep for about a hundred hours.

He gave a resigned sigh. That would be for some other day, probably for some other John Watson, too. One with no Sherlocks to keep him busy. The thought completely failed to cheer him up. Well, there always remained the possibility for -

“Tea, anybody?”

Sherlock snorted, the first sound he'd made since Mycroft had left.

“Your quest for tea is interesting. Especially when one takes into account the fact that you haven't actually drunk anything since you two stumbled through the front door.”

It really shouldn't have surprised John that Sherlock had noticed that, but still it did. Maybe having an unexpected double around wasn't as distracting as he had imagined it would be? He shrugged.

“It's not actually about the tea,” he explained. “But the – the comfort.” He blushed through the words before soldiering on. They were about to talk of much more personal matters soon. He had to be able to say the word 'comfort' in Sherlock's presence. His ears were burning already. Fantastic.

“Tea is comforting,” he finished lamely, having used all of his energy to squeeze out this grand confession.

“Comforting,” Sherlock repeated, still staring at his lips. John licked them nervously and imagined he could taste Sherlock's skin there.

 _I know what your skin tastes like_ , he realised, and it was almost enough to undo him. But he did. And not only that. He knew what Sherlock looked like, _everywhere_ , he knew what he sounded like when he lost himself, what he felt like inside John. How wide and dark his eyes could really go.

“Actually, never mind the tea,” he decided and collapsed back into his chair. This had to be it. This had to be the limit. There couldn't be a ravine deeper to dive into, nor a cliff higher to scale. John had found the absolute limit of human capacity, and it was staring at his lips like they were a crime scene.

“Are you going to do something about that?” Sherlock asked, and for a mad moment John was sure he was talking about the kissing. Oh dear. That would be Sherlock, wouldn't it? Straight into the eye of the storm.

“About what?” So much for trying to stay calm. His voice shook already.

“Mycroft was right,” Sherlock replied. “You're still bleeding. So, are you going to do something about it? You _are_ a doctor, and Mrs Hudson has a problem with blood stains on furniture.”

“Oh? I am? I hadn't noticed.” He supposed he should probably be more interested in the topic of his own health, but for some reason he felt mainly disappointed. Weird, that. He slid deeper into the comfy chair. Some sleep would be delightful right now.

His Sherlock had spent the time after Mycroft's departure pacing in the kitchen and occasionally peeking into the microscope. Now he returned to the living room.

“I could –” he started, but Sherlock jumped up and hurried past him to get the med kit from its place in the kitchen cupboards.

“No,” he barked at once. “I've got it.”

“But I know how he got the wound,” John's Sherlock argued.

“I know it too,” the other one declared, head and shoulders deep in a cupboard. “I'm not blind! The bullet grazed his skin, shot from behind when he was down. Afterwards he was almost immediately submerged.” He stomped out the kitchen holding his trophy, John's ragged home kit. He pushed his face straight against the other Sherlock's. “In the Thames.”

If Sherlock had feathers he would have puffed them up right then. “Obviously.”

“He can't even swim.” 

Wars had been declared with less vitriol. John groaned. Here they went, then. Two hours. The fragile peace had lasted all of two hours. Brilliant.

“I noticed,” his Sherlock replied, nose to nose with the other one, fingers itching towards the kit.

“How could you have been –” Sherlock started, using the annoying singsong voice he usually reserved for Mycroft only. Maybe it was a brother thing. But he had noticed the effort to seize the kit and raised it over his head, holding it hostage.

“They were trying to kill him!”

John closed his eyes. Shuffling noises became louder behind his back, evidence of one of the Sherlocks trying to grab the kit and the other dancing out of his reach. He wondered how long it would take to bleed out, how difficult it would be to scrub his remains off this chair. He just wanted to sleep. Please.

“That's my point exactly!”

“Then what was I supposed to do? _They_ had weapons, _we_ had a cardboard box!”

“So that's where to scratches on his face came from! I've never seen such incompetence in –”

“No, that would be being punched in the face. Can't you observe _anything_?”

“You punched him in the face?”

“My knuckles are unmarked.” Sherlock was aiming for his best haughty voice, deep and rumbling. John slumped a bit deeper into the comfy chair. Oh yes, the beating. He had forgotten about that. How could he have forgotten?

“Not for long if you don't start explaining yourself right now.”

“I know what's on the microscope,” the other one changed the subject. “Incompetence, eh? Did you really think you'd find –”

“Boys, please,” John tried, opening his eyes and turning his head towards the imminent civil war. One of the Sherlocks didn't pay him any heed, brandishing the kit like it were a war axe of the Afghani mountain tribes. The other one glanced at him quickly. Whatever it was he saw on John's face gave him a pause. A flash of understanding ran across his features.

“Actually, I stink,” that one declared, and it took John a moment in his stupor to realise that this was his Sherlock, the one who was his partner on the lips-related crime front.

“Yes,” the other one agreed without missing a beat.

“I'm going to take a shower,” Sherlock continued, giving John an anxious look. “If that's fine.”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Of course it is,” John answered, glaring at both of the adult-sized babies in equal measures. His Sherlock gave them one last unreadable look before disappearing again into the bathroom.

“Don't touch my stuff!” Sherlock yelled after him.

Then the door closed and this was it, this was them being alone for the first time since Sherlock had taken that blasted drugs case an eternity and a quantum physics leap ago.

Neither of them seemed to come up with anything to say, or do. Sherlock changed his weight from one leg to the other, fumbling with the contents of the kit. John stared at the empty fireplace, at the unseeing sockets of the skull. The shower was turned on.

 _There's not going to be enough hot water_ , John thought a bit maniacally. _Not with the long showers they both love to take. I'm not going to be warm ever again._

The sounds of falling water pushed them into words. The silence was easier to fill when it wasn't so complete, so waiting.

“So,” Sherlock started.

“About him,” John tried at the same time, too cowardly to say what he was thinking. _About us._

They both stopped, waited hopefully for the other to continue. Sherlock fidgeted a bit more, then showed John the kit, almost shyly. John gave an abrupt nod and leaned forward, granting access to his abused back. It was slowly starting to hurt.

“Adrenaline,” he whispered to himself. Wonderful stuff.

Sherlock sighed with relief, placed the kit on the side table and unwrapped John from his blanket. He was being surprisingly gentle about it when just a minute earlier he had looked ready to commit a murder over the thing.

“You didn't have these scars earlier,” he pointed out immediately, voice rising again.

“Just ignore them for the moment,” John pleaded. “Please.” He couldn't go back there yet. Not into that particular memory of Sebastian's proud voice, mesmerised eyes, glistening blades, the old rag stuffed into his mouth. He shivered again and tried to repress it. Not now. Not today.

Sherlock hummed something. John could feel his eyes mapping his skin, probably deducing a novel in the process. He didn't dare to think what Sherlock was reading from his body. The silence did nothing to stop the memories overwhelming him.

“Say something,” he asked, hardly hearing his own voice. A warm palm squeezed his shoulder. Leaning into the comforting touch was an immediate reaction, grounding him back into the situation. That dark place was a literal world away. It was all right now.

“I – I don't actually know what to say,” Sherlock admitted. John couldn't help a little smile-grimace escaping.

“Yeah, me neither,” he agreed.

They listened to the shower for a moment while Sherlock cleaned the bullet graze with large cotton swabs. His fingers ghosted over the other marks in the process, too delicate to protest about.

“This was different with him, easier in a way,” John confessed, trying to push through the block in his throat. “Of course, I imagined he was you. That took a while.”

“You thought he was me?” Sherlock managed to make that sound like it was the most supreme insult ever uttered. His hand working on John's skin was careful, but the cleaning still stung.

“Well, yeah,” John answered and frowned. He had assumed that would be pretty obvious. Apparently not.

“Why didn't you figure it out at once?” Sherlock snapped and it was all John could do not to draw away in surprise. This was going to be a problem, out of all the candidates they had?

“How could you have been so blind to not see he wasn't me? I'm nothing like him!” Sherlock demanded, angry words spit at John's direction. Even his hands had stopped, the swab resting just above John's skin.

“Right,” John answered, trying to keep his own sudden anger in check. “Because you never act out of the ordinary. Because whenever you do weird stuff, alternate universes is my first thought. Heavens forbid you'd experiment on my feelings or reactions. After all, that has totally _never_ happened before.”

“But that's not the same!”

“How? How is it not the same, for me, Sherlock? How on earth could I have known? It was _you_ , broken and bleeding, whom I dragged away from that place! It was _you_ whom I put together on that sofa right there! And it was _you_ who threw me out in the morning! So tell me, how was I supposed to know?”

“He threw you out,” Sherlock repeated, as if this was the most important part of data in John's little outburst. He reached for the bandages.

“Of course he threw me out! I was a stranger in his home, acting weirdly and insisting to be his bloody flatmate! I should be happy he didn't just deck me. Oh wait, he _did_!”

“What the hell were you even doing there? Would you just hold still for a minute, I'm trying to work here! Why did you run away?”

“Run away?” John asked, very close to total meltdown now but staying put under Sherlock's insistent hands. “Run away! I was trying to save your fucking life! What the hell were you thinking? That I just decided to leisurely skip universes while you were being shot at? What do you take me for?”

“I don't know!” Sherlock yelled. “That's what I'm trying to find out! Have you even thought what it was like for me, failing to figure it out, while you were out there, with him, apparently –” he cut himself out, gnashed his teeth together in rage. But John's well of anger wasn't emptied yet.

“Were you shot, Sherlock?” He demanded. “Were you?”

Sherlock grumbled, securing the dressing into place.

“What!”

“I had the situation under control.”

“Under control my arse! You were drugged for who knows how long, and that was before they decided to use you for target practice! Tell me exactly how that was having the situation under control? How did you ever allow it to go that far if you had it _under the fucking control_?”

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible and pulled the blanket back into place.

“I don't think you understand,” John burst out, unable to not to say it any longer. All those nightmares, all that guilt, for nothing? “I've spent the last eternity being terrified you were dead!”

“So have I!”

Sherlock's shouted admission left echoes in the room. They stared at each other, breathing hard. Sherlock looked sickly pale, wild eyed and furious. John had to fight not to reach out and draw him in for a kiss. Not this one, not this one. This one wasn't his to touch.

“Did you,” he gulped instead, ashamed of himself. “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock's grey eyes found the walls immediately. “You know what? I'll have that tea now.” He escaped to the kitchen with tense shoulders and nervous movements. John started to go after him but thought better of it and remained in his chair.

Sherlock had missed him horribly, John had been told. Sherlock had blamed himself, for two entire months, unable to explain any of the mysteries of that terrible night in Havering. John looked at the wall over the sofa again, at the strict straight lines of the maps and the clippings. The newspaper lay forgotten on the floor in front of the leather couch. Four days since he'd slept, the other Sherlock had estimated. The paleness, the stubble, the wild expression constantly creeping onto his features, they all told a similar story.

“I didn't mean to go,” he said quietly, talking to the rug on the floor. Seeing Sherlock hurt like hell right then. “I wasn't given a chance. It all just happened, and I didn't even realise it had until some days later. I just did what I always do.” He glanced up at Sherlock. He had stopped, his back to John, but he was listening. He was listening.

“I saved your stupid arse,” John continued. “Got you back home. The key even fit. I should have realised it then. All my stuff was gone. But I thought,” he stopped, forced himself to laugh to avoid crying, “I thought it was some stupid practical joke of yours. Didn't even _think_ it could mean something – permanent. I'm sorry.”

“But you found out,” Sherlock said, and it wasn't a question.

“I did. He told me. Showed me the book, explained it all.” He stopped, remembered those sombre days. “It took a while to sink in. It was all so familiar, except when it wasn't. None of them knew me. And he is Sherlock Holmes, but you're right. He's not like you. Or yes, he is, but – I'm sorry. I can't explain it.”

“You didn't expect to return.”

“How could I? I had no idea what had caused the skip in the first place. I dreamed about it, yes, but, yeah. I had to accept it, or go insane.”

“So you just settled down with him.”

There was a hint of betrayal in Sherlock's voice. John bowed his head. He supposed he deserved that.

“I had some doubts at first. But where else could I have gone? I was dead there, Sherlock. They had gunned me down in Afghanistan. When I got the shoulder, I mean. Wasn't so lucky there. I went to see Mike and he showed me the grave.”

That made Sherlock turn around, finally. His face was carved from stone, unreadable.

“It was my grave,” John continued. “Fresh golden letters on the stone. My name. I was dead. Mike had been to my funeral. He was shocked. I – I didn't know what to do. So I came back here. Went back there, I mean. He had a bed made for me. Upstairs.”

“He's simplifying things,” said the other Sherlock emerging from the bathroom. “Mycroft was being himself. That took a while to sort out.”

Sherlock gave him a long-faced look.

“What do you think you are you doing?”

Sherlock looked at him, questioning.

“That's my dressing gown!”

“Oh, is it? Funny thing, I remember buying this one only last year.”

“Put it back!”

“Oh shut up, Sherlock,” John sighed. “It's not like you'd be wearing it right now anyway.”

“No, but it's the principle of the thing,” Sherlock answered, glaring. “And don't touch the microscope! That experiment is in a very delicate state!”

“It's dust,” the other Sherlock told him. “Stone dust by the looks of it. And some sand and a couple of fibres. It doesn't look very reactive to me.”

“You would just destroy the arrangement.”

“You don't need that any more,” Sherlock argued as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He's back now.”

John froze. He couldn't see the microscope from where he was sitting, but that sounded a lot like something he should be aware of. Stone dust, sand and fibres. Had Sherlock been gathering them from the warehouse in the distant hope they might offer some clues of John's disappearance?

“Sherlock?”

“I had to try something,” the detective admitted, sounding ashamed. He walked through the room to stand in front of his crime wall, pointing at some photos pinned there.

“The gang didn't know anything. I interrogated them. So did Lestrade. So did my brother. They were morons, every single one of them, only after the easy scraps of money their boss had promised them. The police and the medics trampled the remaining evidence to death before I got back there. I had to make do.”

He turned to look at John. His face was severe and distant, but his voice betrayed the urgency he had felt after his friend had seemingly vanished in the air.

“Five hairs from your head. I had almost started to think I had imagined you there, but there were five strands of your hair stuck to the shipping crate where he threatened us. It really had happened. So I kept looking.”

He pointed at the wall, at the clippings gathered there.

“No ransom was ever demanded. Nothing in the papers. CCTV didn't show anyone whisking you out of there. When you remove the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth. Somehow you were still in the warehouse.”

John listened, gripping the handles of his chair.

“We searched for trapdoors. Opened every single crate. Mycroft quarantined the area. Nothing should have been able to move in or out of there. Yet we found no traces of what had happened. Only the dust and the sand from your shoes. And your gun, of course. That was confiscated by the police during the first investigation.”

Sherlock pointed towards the mantelpiece. The Sig was sitting there, next to the skull. Friends of Sherlock's. John hadn't even noticed it before and it held no interest for him now. Sherlock still looked impenetrable, but his voice sounded wrecked. 

“Lestrade kicked me out of the case. Cited personal connection, the idiot. Mycroft enforced that decision. So I sneaked back in, every day for a week before I was caught. I never found anything. How am I supposed to work without any data?”

He didn't look like he was expecting an answer. John realised he was biting his lip and released it, only to start chewing it again. He had thought Sherlock would be entertained by it all. He had thought.

He hadn't thought at all. He shivered inside the cocoon of the blanket. It was way too early for all this emotional stuff to come out. Sherlock stood quietly like a statue. His silhouette blurred in John's eyes. He looked away. The Sig. No, that wasn't any better. The wall. Even worse. His Sherlock, eyes dark and serious, stood in the kitchen, a respectful space between him and the microscope. Five strands of hair and some sand. He gulped desperately. Keep yourself together, you bastard of a Watson.

“I'll have that tea now, please. And I promise to drink it this time.”

“One for me, too.”

They had their teas in under five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	4. O+

Sherlock devoured his tea like it was a pesky chore given by Mycroft, glaring at his double with manic intent as he did so. John sipped his own drink more carefully, wincing at the hot liquid trickling down his sore throat. He had called it comfort, and indeed something had changed in the room, some unmentioned lock had opened during their mutual confessions. Despite himself, John let his shoulders relax.

Who would have believed it, but they had managed to talk about the difficult things. At any rate, they had mentioned some of them, the most important ones. They had even agreed the past months hadn't been easy for either of them. John couldn't remember a more emotional conversation after Moriarty had first shown up and he'd blown his fuse at Sherlock's uncaring attitude. It gave him hope. Maybe there was some way to sort this mess out after all, to fit two Sherlocks into one 221B. Maybe they would accept the situation, or at least learn to tolerate each other. Maybe John's heart wouldn't end up permanently ripped in half. He could still be the blogger, the short one, the flatmate, but also the lover for his Sherlock. Maybe it wasn't just a pipe dream after all.

Or maybe John's head had simply been hit too hard by Moriarty's minions and he had become soft and stupid, because as soon as Sherlock's cup was empty he jumped up and pointed at his double with a quivering finger.

“Blood,” he demanded with conviction.

“Sherlock, for God's sakes,” John groaned. So much for the peaceful solution, then. By noon only the stronger one would remain unless he came up with something, and fast. The other Sherlock looked amused, however, not threatened at all.

“If you insist,” he answered and rolled up the sleeves of his dressing gown. This had the instant effect of breaking a Cheshire grin on the other one's face. 

“Not you, too!” John complained. There went his first plan. They were both ready for it? Should he call Lestrade? What on earth could he tell him? And oh no, Sherlock had been a decent boxer in his youth, John remembered him telling. They could maul each other in a professional way, if they so chose. And of course the flat was just brimming with weapons. Please don't let them think of the Sig.

“Oh shut up John, it's actually quite interesting,” Sherlock replied. “I wonder if he's made of same stuff than I am. We should have done this earlier.”

“When Mrs Hudson was watching? Or Mycroft? Don't kill each other for heaven's sake, I've got no idea how to explain away two bodies of the same idiot!”

Both of them gave him identical frowns, making John feel like a double simpleton. He had a bleak feeling this wouldn't be the last time it happened, either. Unless of course the horrors did manage to off each other in some unspeakable way before their next chance to embarrass him showed up.

“Who said anything about killing? A bit of blood is all I need.”

“We,” the other Sherlock cut in at once.

“What?”

“Is all we need, is all I'm saying.”

“We? Didn't I tell you not to touch the microscope!”

“I'm very capable with the microscope as you should well know.”

“I don't care, it's mine.”

“No, it's not.”

“What?” John asked, too bewildered to follow the rapid-fire argument. Sherlock flashed him a fast, predatory smile.

“He stole it from Barts chemistry lab,” he explained. “The markings are still visible if you know what to look for.”

“Right,” John replied weakly. “Of course. Naturally. More stolen property. Excellent.”

“That was one time!” His Sherlock protested. “And for a good cause, too. I solved the case! Technically, anyhow. I was interrupted before I could make it official.”

The other Sherlock pouted.

“Still, the same principles apply,” he argued. “It's here. Therefore it's mine.”

“Fine,” answered John's Sherlock, surprising everybody else in the room. “But I draw the blood.”

Sherlock hesitated, rubbing the skin of his arm almost reflexively.

“Draw,” John said, feeling slow and stupid. “Microscope. You want to run tests on your blood. You're not planning to kick each others' heads in. That's – great. That's really great. Constructive. Fine. Go for it.”

The Sherlocks shared a look. A swift, unspoken conversation was being held right over John's head. He realised he didn't really care about it. He probably should get used to that sort of thing anyway. He yawned, the adrenaline disappearing as fast as it had risen. One more catastrophe halted. Maybe they'd all live till the noon after all.

Sleep. He really, truly wanted to sleep.

“Agreed,” said one of the Sherlocks, startling John from his ascending slumber. He opened his eyes to the unreal sight of a Sherlock fastidiously cleaning the skin of another Sherlock, who was still pouting. He blinked, lids heavy. That was almost sweet, not murderous at all.

“What the hell is this?” Sherlock asked, gripping his double's arm and practically burying his nose into it. “Old pinpricks? Did they – you too? But why would they when you don't even –”

Sherlock tugged his arm free. “I'll take it myself. You probably can't even find the vein. Give me the needle.”

Okay. Maybe a bit murderous still.

“It doesn't make sense,” the other Sherlock continued, still staring at the arm cradled away from him. John found himself wide awake once again. It wasn't the right moment for this. It was too much, too soon. Of course they would stumble upon this, one of the biggest differences between their lives. They were both bewildered enough without this particular reveal. Heads might be kicked in after all.

“Sherlock,” he asked. Two pairs of grey eyes found him as if yanked. “Give those to me. I'll take care of it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes, but his gaze still lingered on his double. The other Sherlock glared back with unmasked hostility, arm hidden away from those prying eyes. It wasn't good, not good at all. He had to give them something else to obsess over. Something, anything -

“I can't do this any more,” he blurted out. Immediately, the attention was back on him. He gestured for one of them to come closer.

“Do what?” Sherlock demanded, offering first the medical equipment and then his forearm to John.

John thought furiously. Keep them thinking, distract them. Come on, Watson. “You two. Sherlocks. Sherlock-ing. It's driving me mad.”

“Happy that you agree,” Sherlock muttered.

“No! I meant just what I said. Names. We need nicknames or something. I spend half of the time confused with my own thoughts.”

“Only half of the time?” Sherlock asked, grinning. John sighed. Well done, Watson. Distraction successful.

“I'm the one sticking a needle into your veins. I'd watch my mouth if I were you.”

“Just one vein, I should hope.”

“I don't do nicknames,” the other Sherlock protested.

“Oh, I've got just the nickname for you,” the other one sneered.

“And what's that?”

“Hold still now, would you?”

Sherlock gave John a happy, mad smile. For him, it was not a huge effort. “It fits him beautifully.”

“There you go,” John declared, pressing a gauze and a tape over the little mark. Sherlocks switched places, and an identical forearm was offered to him.

“Well?” Sherlock asked his double, who was prancing across the room, fighting the escaping grin.

“Taggy!”

Both of the sitting men froze. John's eyes found the dog tags hanging around his lover's neck. Of course Sherlock couldn't know it, but nicknaming his double in a way that indirectly translated to 'Property of John Watson' was probably not the wisest of moves.

“Er, maybe not,” he muttered, pressing his needle carefully into Sherlock's vein.

“I like it,” Sherlock breathed out, light pink spots showing up on his cheeks.

“Definitely not,” John decided. 

They watched the red liquid fill its container in silence, Sherlock wearing a secretive little smile during the whole operation. John shook his head. From one minefield to another. There went his master plan.

_Go you, John Watson._

But Sherlock seemed to have noticed his little barb hadn't hit its intended target. He stared at the pair of them, eyebrows furrowed together, the little tube of blood tossed from one hand to another. He looked like he was trying to figure out a particularly demonic maths problem. But no matter. He was silent, and that was as good as it was going to get. John taped another gauze to another arm and offered Sherlock his own test tube.

“There you go. Have fun. Try not to impale each other on anything.”

Sherlock nodded at him, eyes bright.

“O plus,” he declared.

“That doesn't mean anything,” the other one snapped, emerging from his thoughts. “It's the most common group.”

“So yours is the same?”

John allowed himself a fond smile. The idea that there would be anything common in Sherlock seemed somehow ridiculous, and the grudging yes given betrayed that the man himself felt the same.

“I'll take notes.”

“Hmm.”

_Get along, please._

He pushed his feet towards the fireplace. The slow embers shone red and golden. He let his eyelids fall closed. Dear God, _Taggy_. But a familiar mumbling coming from the kitchen calmed his mind.

“That's interesting. Is that interesting? Why is it?”

“What's this?”

_Please get along._

His toes were warm. So were his fingers. He smiled. The muttering in the kitchen continued, but his lethargic mind didn't bother listening any more. It was enough to know that no one was being actively murdered.

“-on.”

And Mrs Hudson had taken it like a star. Really, what would faze that woman? Oh, but the warmth was so nice.

“-ohn.”

He frowned. He was so close to sleep. What was it now?

“You're dozing off.”

“I noticed, thanks so much for waking me,” he answered grumpily.

“That was sarcasm,” said Sherlock-in-the-kitchen. “He uses it when he's displeased.”

“I know it was sarcasm,” replied the Sherlock who was standing next to his chair. “You should go to bed, John.”

That woke him up.

“I can't go to sleep now!” He protested. “It's not even noon yet!”

Sherlock glanced at his double. “Seems to me you've done much more impossible things recently. Besides, if you fall asleep there you're going to have a crick in your neck in a matter of minutes.”

“Because otherwise I'm in a top-notch condition,” John mumbled, refusing to move.

“He has a point,” the other Sherlock cut in. “You hardly slept last night. It's been rough. Go and have some decent rest.”

His eyes flew wide open.

“You're teaming up on me,” he realised. “You two are _teaming up_ on me!”

Sherlocks looked at each other, appalled. One of them shrugged. “It's rational.”

“Rational,” John repeated, horrified. “Here I was hoping that you'd be able to get along, but you've gone a step further, haven't you? Of course you have. You always do. So you're going to get logical on me together now?”

Another confused look was shared between the two accused.

“John, don't you think you're overreacting a bit? This kind of proves the point. Go upstairs and get some sleep. You aren't helping anyone by staying up.”

“Dear God, now you're sending me to my room,” John uttered and broke into helpless giggles. It was too much. He was in too deep.

Both of the standing men took alarmed steps towards him. He got a flash of being carried up the stairs and tucked into his bed. Okay. Fine.

“You know what?” John asked, brushing laughter-tears from his eyes. “Maybe you do have a point. But.”

Sherlocks stopped. John pointed a shaking finger at them.

“You two. Absolutely no mayhem while I'm gone. Understood?”

He was pouted at. Professionally.

“I mean it. I'm aware of the destruction you're capable of. No explosions, no more blood-letting, no prank calls to Anderson, you know the drill.”

“How old do you take me for?” Sherlock asked indignantly.

“About four,” John answered, got up and limped to the door. “Also,” he added, a bit wildly, when he reached it. “Do _not_ multiply. And absolutely no killing your double. Am I understood?”

Sherlock looked exasperated. “Yes, John.”

“And if Moriarty shows up, shoot him.”

Sherlock frowned. “Moriarty?”

“Actually, ignore that,” John mumbled and headed upstairs. That was another pinprick they didn't need to dig up just yet.

–

Oh God but his bed felt heavenly. He burrowed into the sheets, cried just a little and fell into a deep sleep in a minute.

–

The room was shadowed when he woke up. A quick glance at the clock told him it was evening still. He hadn't slept through the night after all. It also reminded him that his body had been put through a lot during the last couple of days. He was sore all over, his head felt trampled on and his back protested at every movement. 

“Sherlock?” He croaked, but there was no answer. He was alone, and the door was closed. He didn't remember closing it though. Maybe Sherlock had been here, but had woken up before him and left already? Had he truly become so accustomed to him that he didn't even stir at his closeness?

He stayed in the bed, listening for a while before getting up. The flat beneath was quiet. What were they up to?

He was brushing his teeth when the truth registered. He stared at himself at the mirror, eyes widening. Oh fuck, had he really mentioned damn Jim just like that? If Sherlocks had run out, intent on shooting their remaining nemesis full of bloody holes, John had no one to blame but himself. He raced downstairs as fast as he could. There wasn't a muscle group not screaming, his brain the loudest of all.

The kitchen was empty and the sofa deserted when John descended from his room like a mistimed fury of the gods. Oh no. This was it. Mycroft would have him flogged publicly. Unless. Without another thought, he poked his head into the bedroom.

The sight that met him there would have melted glaciers.

Two figures rested under the sheets, dead to the world. They slept back to back, both with equally tousled messes of hair. He wanted to believe the one facing the door, the one who hugged an extra pillow to his chest, was his.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” he whispered to the sleeping men. Then he went and fetched his camera. Who knew what future held, but this moment needed to be immortalised for posterity.


	5. Interlude I

“You're yawning. Why are you yawning?”

“Because, self, I'm tired.”

“Off to bed with _him_ , then?”

“What makes you think so?”

“You know very well what.”

“Well, you're mistaken. His mattress doesn't agree with me. Also, that bed is single and he kicks in his sleep. I'm going to my own room.”

“What?”

“There's nothing wrong with my ears. You heard me.”

“But that's my bed. You're in _my_ home, if you haven't noticed.”

“Thought it was mine. Even the key fit.”

“Of course it did. It's John's after all. He's used it for ages.”

“In fact it's not. He lost his. We had to replace it. Listen, I understand this is difficult to take in.”

“You understand nothing! I lost him. I've been looking for him ever since that night in -”

“In the warehouse. Havering. Fifty-three days ago. I _know_.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. No. Hugh Everett, self. We were both in that warehouse, but not the same one. That's the only explanation we managed to come up with.”

“We?”

“Me and Mycroft.”

“ _Mycroft_ knows about this after all? Didn't look like that earlier.”

“Not yours. Mine. Sit down before you fall down. Anyone can see you're exhausted, too. Even John saw that. I said four days, but it's been longer than that, isn't it?”

A silence followed the last whisper. Both men stayed standing. One of them rolled his eyes, the other averted his gaze.

“John always sees.”

“You missed him.” Softer, now.

“Shut up!”

“You were afraid for him.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Don't you want to know what he was doing?”

“I suspect he was in _your_ bed, having great time. And after all his protestations, too.”

“He didn't realise, at first. Kept on going as if everything was normal. Patched me up right there on the sofa. To be fair on him, neither did I, when it happened again. No bright lights, no suspicious sounds, no nothing. Just – despair.”

“Despair. What do you know about despair?”

“I thought I'd lost him. He was too long in the water, and he was _bleeding_. Of course I was desperate! But you know what? So was he. He was absolutely terrified for you when he came to me. He was so careful. I didn't understand it yet.”

“Doesn't sound like me.”

“Yes, because you're doing so much better. Lashing out like that, don't you think it's a bit redundant? I know you. I _am_ you. I know what's going on in your head.”

“There's nothing going on!”

“You really don't know how to handle this, do you? Anyway, when he found out, he – he just broke. Right in front of my eyes. But he was so courteous about it. Took his panic attacks out of the shared space. Apologised. Prepared to leave.”

“You should have let him go.”

“Why? To spare _you_? He'd be dead by now. The rules there, they are different. He wouldn't have survived for a week. As it was, keeping him out of everybody's attention proved impossible. He turned heads just by walking down the street. Moriarty came straight for him when he found out about his existence.” 

“James Moriarty.”

“Are there others?”

“Don't be clever. Moriarty is mine. Explain yourself.”

“He's dead.”

“Dead! John killed him?”

“I did. Concentrate, self. Can't you deduce the scene? The pier, the bullets, his wound? I gave you time, I gave you space, I even gave you privacy with him. What else do you need? A written confession?”

“Shut up! James Moriarty is dead? This changes things.”

“Not yours. Mine, you idiot! My brother, my Moriarty, my Jo-”

“Shut up!”

“Forget about it. Just try and get this into your head. Name something very valuable.”

“I don't play your games.”

“For God's sakes! Do you care about John at all?”

A long silence, filled only by quick pacing steps. Then,

“Hmm. The crown jewels.”

“Well, he was worth at least triple the monetary value of those, out there. So yes, priceless. The governments have been trying to breed something like him for decades. He had huge value, but not as a human being.”

A shorter silence this time, spent glaring.

“I'm not going to ask the leading question you want me to ask.”

“Am I really this childish? Fine. His worth was that of a glorified lab animal. The only bright side of the Moriarty fiasco was that he never realised exactly what John is. If he did, neither of us would be here now.”

“John is John. You keep talking like he was something extraordinary.”

“Don't you think he is?”

“Well, _you_ certainly do.”

“Coward. Deduce, self! I'm known for my big brain and even bigger mouth. I'm not seeing much evidence of either here.”

“I don't really see how -”

“Everyone saw, there! And if I hadn't taken him in, he'd be floating in a hundred little bottles around the globe by now, poked by idiotic scientists. So take your head out of your arse for one _second_ and look around yourself! You got him back! Isn't that what you wanted?”

They were standing nose to nose now, both pairs of eyes turning ice cold with fury.

“I never wanted you.”

“Well, you got me. Deal with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	6. The Falls of The Reichenbach

He blinked, and the walls still stood. Softly, carefully, he reached out. A dusty back of an old book, The Children’s Encyclopaedia, met his fingers. He opened it and scanned a few pages. A relieved smile bloomed on his face. The facts were right. There were no confusing historical or biological additions, no armies felled by single words and no reason for Sherlock to cower in front of his bloody, insufferable brother.

He couldn't stop touching things. He wandered between the kitchen and the living room, sliding his fingers over the furniture and the wallpaper, caressing the curtains and stopping only to pick up random mementos Sherlock had scattered all over the place. It all seemed both more real and more fantastic after resting. He had returned. This was home. This was where he belonged. Even the air smelled a right mixture of Sherlock's creative madness and old Victorian walls. He wanted to rush downstairs to hug Mrs Hudson, but he also wanted to call Mike or Greg or yes, even Harry, to chatter mindlessly and reclaim his place in this world he understood.

He did nothing of the sort. Instead he gulped down some painkillers and continued haunting the two rooms, his restlessness making it impossible to settle into any one place. Now and then, he had to check again. The newspaper, his blog, the television programmes, it was all familiar. Gradually, his wild jubilant feeling gave way to contentment. He smiled and shook his head, peeking once again at the photo he had stolen earlier. Of course, nothing had changed during his rest on that front either. Despite the bizarre sleeping arrangement John had immortalised, the fact remained that there were two Sherlocks where only one should be found, and he couldn’t imagine a future where that wouldn’t become a problem. Despite their landlady’s enthusiasm, London was barely able to hold one consulting detective. The two of them would cause Scotland Yard to go down in flames of trodden egos. Still, this failed to make him anything short of thrilled. Sherlock’s promise of danger proved as difficult to resist as it always had been.

“Stop it,” a petulant voice complained behind his back. John's mouth broke into a wide grin. This was it. This was life.

“Stop what?”

“Smiling,” Sherlock grumbled. “And running around. What's got into you? A herd of elephants trampling through the Tower would make less noise.”

Savouring the moment, John turned to look at him. Blue dressing gown hanging over another ratty t-shirt. No tags. Pity, that. He wanted a kiss rather badly. A face that could make onions cry, but at least Sherlock had shaved. Despite the protest John couldn't stop smiling, didn't even bother to try. He stabbed a giddy finger at his friend's direction, drunk on happiness.

“You slept with him. You did. In the same bed. At the same time. Asleep.”

He was blabbering and didn't care one whit. Serotonin. Whatever.

Sherlock's nose seemed to try to make contact with his eyebrows. “Yes, John. I'm aware of the meaning of that phrase.”

John still couldn't wrap his head around it. He flashed Sherlock the photo, careful not to let the tall bastard steal his phone and delete the evidence. But Sherlock didn't try to seize it from him. Instead he looked more defensive than a spiky ball of a dozen hedgehogs, keeping his distance.

“He got in first,” he grumbled.

John shook his head in awe.

“So you went into bed with him. Did you discuss the sides beforehand?”

Sherlock drew himself into his full height, serious and impatient, a haughty king deprived of his throne.

“I will not be driven out of my own bedroom.”

“Ah, so it was out of the principle? If it was me falling asleep there, would you still have crawled in?”

Sherlock stepped back, looking horrified. “John!”

Okay, time to draw his reins in a bit. That had been a rather terrible thing to say, hadn't it? He knew very well Sherlock wasn't comfortable with that kind of thing. Get a grip, Watson.

“Sorry -” the doorbell rang once, its maximum pressure just under half a second. Before either of them had a chance to react, another Sherlock bolted out off the bedroom, sporting an uncombed riot of hair, a wrinkled sheet and looking like Christmas and all his birthdays had come at once. He barely avoided crashing into the kitchen table and sending the microscope flying, jerked the door to the staircase open and rushed downstairs taking four steps at a time, fabric flapping behind him like a cape of some comic book hero from John's youth.

“Client!”

“- about that,” John finished.

–

The man was short and unwilling to admit to the double facts that he was going bald, and that most of the world didn't need to stand on tiptoe to confirm it despite his creatively combed hair. At the moment he was staring at the two rivalling consulting detectives with slightly bulging, nervous eyes. He carried with him a grey suitcase and the air of someone harassed beyond his capacity.

“Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

John trampled on the nearest toes. Their wronged owner let out an undignified sound. The Sherlock who was not currently being digitly violated shot his hand up, sending the dog tags dancing around his bare neck. John eyed the sheet in despair. At the moment, it was kept in place mostly by grace and good intentions.

“I am!”

“A pleasure,” said the little man, looking like he was starting to reconsider that statement with alacrity. Sherlock grasped his hand and shook it with vigour, pulling the man inside the flat like a guest to a cannibal's feast.

“Likewise,” he declared mouth full of barely smiling teeth. “Coffee? Tea? Or shall we just talk about the painting?”

“The painting?” The little man asked, fighting feebly to free his hand, his eyes captured by the sight of the skull and the gun by the mantlepiece. John realised he was grinning in quite unhinged way and failed to school his expression into seriousness. Sherlock was almost jumping around the man in his exuberance over the promise of a case.

“The Falls of the Reichenbach,” the other Sherlock cut in with sour voice. “It was stolen recently from your auction house, wasn't it, Mr -”

“Molesey,” the little man said, looking more and more pained. “I'm sorry, but who are you? And how did you know I was here because of the painting?”

“Oh, a dozen different things,” Sherlock replied, faking his best angelic smile. “Not the least of which was the article I read yesterday about a stolen painting with your face printed next to it.”

“I never read any such article,” the other Sherlock muttered rebelliously, picking imaginary lint off his sheet and dragging it even lower in the process. Mr Molesey stared at it in horror. John realised his own grin was getting more manic by the second. He couldn't force himself to take the situation seriously, even though the man was in unmasked distress. He hadn't felt this juvenile since the freaking Buckingham Palace. This had to be brought under control before they made headlines. Again.

“Mr Molesey,” he greeted, the thin line of catastrophe too delicious to completely resist. “I'm John Watson, Mr Holmes' flatmate, and this is his, uh, brother. He's visiting us for the time being. Please tell us about your troubles. While Mr Holmes goes to locate his pants.”

John led their guest to the living room, eyeballing his Sherlock in warning. The sheeted menace muttered, and pouted, and finally skulked off into the bedroom. When he returned, the chairs were taken and Mr Molesey was wringing his hands on the sofa, the suitcase trapped between his anxious feet. Clad in a full black suit and combed to perfection, Sherlock stole a kitchen chair and sat on it, placing himself right next to the client and blocking the line of sight from the chairs in the process. Next to John, the other Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible and probably profane.

“It's priceless, this painting,” Mr Molesey explained. “The only work by Turner we had left in the UK. The owner left it with us before the auction for inspection and safekeeping. If we don't get it back, my business will be ruined. People are already withdrawing their items from our storage and turning to the bigger companies.”

“Where is this storage located?”

“It’s in the City, along with several of the bank vaults. They've assured me it's impossible to breach. Only I and a couple of my staff have the right to enter. There has never before been any trouble. I've used that space for decades.”

“And nothing else was taken?”

“No. I went through everything. The auction is next week, we have quite a lot of valuables in there. Only the painting is gone.”

“Have these other people who have access been monitored?”

Mr Molesey gave him a sincere look. “That's exactly why I came here, Mr Holmes. The police say they've solved it.”

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and stalked towards his double and the little man on the sofa. “That's great! No need for us, then! Goodbye, Mr Molesey. I trust you can let yourself out.”

The client squeaked in distress and dug his fingers into the pillows. “But! Mr Holmes! They've got the wrong person, I know it!”

“Well, you're wrong,” Sherlock declared. “Far it from us to doubt the noble efforts of Scotland Yard. Shame on you for even suggesting that, Mr Molesey.”

John gawked. For a horrible moment he was sure he had managed to skip worlds once again without noticing, but then his Sherlock elbowed his double on the side and gave the client an apologetic smile.

“Forgive my brother, Mr Molesey. He has a tendency to be touchingly naive about the might of the police. Fortunately, I know better. Tell me about the suspect. He's a friend of yours?”

Little by little, the pillows were released in favour of the suitcase. The man nodded fiercely.

“Yes. No! My – my apprentice. Please believe me, Mr Holmes. They've got the wrong person. There's no way Betty would have done it.”

“I'll take it,” Sherlock sighed, almost religiously.

“You've got to be kidding me!” His double protested.

“Take what?” Mr Molesey asked, his eyes slipping from one Holmes to the other and becoming more unfocused by the second. John could sympathise. He knew the feeling.

“The case, of course,” Sherlock answered. “I'll need the security tapes and of course permits to inspect the storage rooms and question your staff.”

“Oh thank you!” Mr Molesey exclaimed, opened his case and handed him a full envelope. “Thank you so much! Please help Betty, Mr Holmes. I don't even care about the painting. Just help her.”

“This is a two at best,” Sherlock complained to John behind the happy couple's back. “What about my reputation? Soon every other lady with a missing spoon will be queuing at the door. We could as well advertise on the Daily Mail, next to the fortune tellers.”

“Let him have his fun,” John replied as Sherlock helped Mr Molesey out, promising a swift return of the missing painting. Soon after he bounced back the stairs, leapt over the living room floor and came crashing down on John's lap, prompting an inarticulate yelp from his double and a muffled protest from John's poor ribs.

“You were right!” Sherlock declared, planting a loud kiss on John's forehead. “They really do seek us out here! What do you think about the case?”

“Sounded to me like his lady friend will have some explaining to do,” John answered, pushing Sherlock gently away from his battered chest. Seeing him happy was wonderfully contagious, and he couldn't help but cling to his lover's hand. Sherlock gave a contented sigh and flopped down on the floor by his feet, tearing the fat envelope open like it was a long-awaited gift. Soon he had a stack of papers and some photos in his hands. John's good mood continued uninterrupted. Sherlock was content. Could life get any better than this?

This was when he raised his gaze and met the drained, blank stare of his first flatmate. The past minute rolled through his mind, a silent film with some veritable highlights. Sherlock sitting on John's lap. Sherlock kissing John's forehead. John holding Sherlock's hand. Both of them being obviously comfortable with each other, laughing and smiling without restraints. A semi-secret snogging session in the bathroom was one thing, this was something very different.

Sherlock didn't even blink. His skin was pale and greyish, his expression pained.

John tried for a small, unsure shrug.

Sherlock's face darkened and he got up without saying a word. He disappeared into his room, only to emerge a few minutes later clad in his best suit and the ubiquitous coat, heading for the stairs. John looked after him, hand forgotten in Sherlock's grasp. He felt ill.

“Don't worry about him,” his lover muttered, apparently not as absorbed in the papers as he seemed to be.

“Don't? How could I not?” John asked, thinking about that empty gaze.

“He'll come around.”

“Didn't look like that.”

“He will. He's got the best possible motivation to.”

“He does?” John asked lamely, failing to feel soothed by Sherlock's flimsy reassurances.

“Yes John, he does,” Sherlock answered, gifting him a fierce smile. “That's you, by the way. He just needs some time to process this day. It takes me a while to work through emotions. Now, stop feeling so guilty and let me study Mr Molesey's little problem.”

“Sorry,” John said, not knowing what he was apologising for. At some point, saying sorry had apparently become his default state. “It's just – I feel bad for him.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock shrugged. “Shut up now.”

For a moment they sat in silence, John squirming in his misery. Sherlock sighed.

“You're really not getting the hang of this,” he complained. “Go and do something then. Shout at somebody. Glare at people. Just calm down.”

“That's,” John choked, “that's really not how I tend to calm down, Sherlock.”

“Isn't it? Funny that, it seems to be very effective,” Sherlock muttered and continued leafing through the papers.

John recognised a dismissal when he saw one. He got up and, not controlling his restlessness, kept on wandering around the flat. But now his eyes picked up different things.

The days-old newspaper in front of the sofa, half pushed under it. He imagined Sherlock lying there, doggedly turning pages and fighting the insistent drag of his heavy lids. There would have been a glass of water on the table next to him, set there by Mrs Hudson. That glass was now in the kitchen, unwashed in the sink along with an assortment of other tableware. John peeked into the trash can. Half-empty takeaway containers, used filters of ground coffee and nothing else, not even nibbled apple cores. He felt sick.

Unavoidably, his wanderings took him back to the living room, face to face with the obsessively arranged and rearranged crime scene wall. His own face stared back at him from the maze of impossible data. Sherlock had used one of the old newspaper photos, had cut himself out of it and pinned it next to a number of maps and plans. He couldn’t have known he had been working on a faulty assumption. He had thought he had removed the impossible, but the reality of the situation had been unimaginable. John glanced at his lover, his Sherlock from another universe. How long would Sherlock have kept on searching? How far would he have pushed himself? He had never even told John if he had been injured or not.

“Yes, great,” Sherlock mumbled. “Take that down, would you? I've got fresh material to put up.”

And, well. While it was true that emptying the wall had been his job in the past, usually done when Sherlock had passed out in his bed after a case or two, this was different. This was _his_ wall. He didn't feel he had the right to touch it, to take down the evidence of Sherlock's search for him.

“Maybe not,” he answered, shaking his head.

“Do you think he’s going to touch it?” Sherlock asked in irritation.

John considered for a moment. What _did_ Sherlock think of the situation? Did he feel betrayed? Did he think he had failed? John supposed so, given Sherlock’s outburst in the morning. But the only things he had witnessed himself were that Sherlock was unhappy, and that the apparent relationship between John and his double felt repulsive to him. Why else such strong reactions? And in a way, John could understand him. Sherlock didn’t do intimacy. Seeing himself happily indulging in such behaviours, and with John Watson of all people, had to be weird. After all, John had spent their whole flatshare loudly announcing he wasn’t like that, that he wasn’t interested in such things. Sherlock had to feel horribly uncomfortable about the whole thing. He had to wonder how deep John’s denials ran. If he had thought of _him_ in that way, unrequited as it had been. 

_Which you do. Did. Did, you idiot._

John groaned aloud.

“What is it now?”

”Is there any chance he hasn’t realised? I mean, about us?” He asked, not really believing the world would be so kind. They hadn’t exactly been subtle, and while relationships weren’t Sherlock’s forte, observing tended to be. He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes off John’s lips after Mycroft had left, and if he had somehow failed to add two and two together at that point, his double’s little lap dance a moment ago surely had confirmed his suspicions.

Sherlock agreed. “I’m not an idiot, John.”

He groaned again. Sherlock gave him a curious look. “It really bothers you that much? What he thinks?”

John gestured at the wall. “Is it any wonder? We were close, but he’s not like that. Like – you. He doesn’t care about things like this. But look at how he went after me. He must think so little of me, that I abandoned him. I mean, just look at this! This isn’t like him! And then we came back, and suddenly I’m making out with you, and everything has changed. How could it not bother me?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “You apologised. Although for what, I’m not sure. None of this has been your fault, John.”

He shook his head. Sherlock was still not getting it.

“I did. But I don’t think it’s enough. Do you think, maybe, you could – tone it down, a bit?”

“Tone what down?”

John felt the blush coming. “It. This. Us.”

“So loquacious, John,” Sherlock muttered, but he got up from the piles of papers and glided over the floor to him. John stared. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock managed to move like that, but he really did glide, like he was made of some kind of jelly, his whole body a sinuous line of seduction. If he came any closer, they’d be touching from chests down.

Sherlock didn’t come any closer. John swallowed, eyes transfixed on that pale throat and the glittering chain around it. He realised he wanted to lick it. He had no idea what Sherlock wanted.

“Not toning it down, I assume,” he croaked. Sherlock pressed himself against John. Somehow he managed to do that without actually touching him. Anticipation, John thought faintly. It was all in his head.

“Tell me, John,” Sherlock purred into his shivering ear, “how many times we’ve had sex?”

His mind unhelpfully flashed through those times. His body declared its interest to at least double them immediately.

“Two,” he replied weakly. “Unless you count that time you sodomised me by the kitchen counter. Really, Sherlock, what -”

“Hmm,” Sherlock approved, sniffing around his jaw and ears. “And how many times would you like to repeat the experience?”

_Ten. Twenty. A hundred, a thousand times. All the times._

He gulped.

“Trust me,” Sherlock said, lips whispering against his ear, “that feeling is entirely mutual. But.”

“Sherlock,” John managed with some difficulty. “Is this you being territorial?”

A rustle of silk, and Sherlock was on his knees, huge black eyes staring up at him over pink cheeks. His severe, primly buttoned suit only served to make the image even more scandalous. John’s mouth filled with saliva, making him swallow desperately.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he answered, pressing against John’s legs, finally touching him. Hot, he was once again unbearably hot, even through all those layers of clothing. “Sir.”

John had already graduated from wanting to lick Sherlock to wanting to do something a lot more graphic to him. His hands were itching towards his zipper, and he caught them behind his back.

“It’s difficult,” he replied miserably, remembering the bland, shocked gaze of the other one.

“You insist he doesn’t care about these things,” Sherlock continued, voice as low as it could go, a lion or an engine rumbling. “So if he doesn’t care, why do you?”

John looked at him helplessly. How _did_ Sherlock manage to cockblock him from getting it on with _Sherlock_? The bastard had powers beyond human imagination!

“But know this,” Sherlock told him. “I do care. I want you. I _need_ you. There’s no Victor here to ease the pressure. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Oh God. He thought he did.

“It keeps on building,” Sherlock continued, his eyes gaining a faraway look. “Boiling. Until it erupts.” He was clinging to the tags now, and not in a sensual way.

“I told you before,” he reminded John. “About what it means to be submissive. I can’t turn it off when it becomes inconvenient. I.” His fingers convulsed around the sturdy chain, yanking it hard. An angry, red line rose against his skin but he just pulled again, sharper. He was going to hurt himself. Concerned, John grasped his fingers, pried them open and let them drop, put his own hands around that slender throat. That had calmed him down earlier, when Moriarty had messed with his head. Sherlock’s pulse was well over a healthy limit and his fingers dug themselves into the fabric of John’s jeans.

“Need,” Sherlock pushed out, like he had trouble breathing. John's mind screamed at him to let go, but instead he pressed harder, careful not to restrict his airway too much and hoping he understood what was going on. All the thoughts about sex had fled his mind. Sherlock clung to him and John held him back, swearing and apologising and chanting his name, until finally, after ages it seemed, his breathing stabilised. Sherlock sagged against him, a shivering rag doll, all tension gone from his body as fast as it had appeared.

“You,” he whispered, and John had no idea what he meant. No matter. You got used to that, living with a man like him.

“Shit, Sherlock, don't scare me like that,” he swore, still clinging to his convulsing throat. Sherlock let out a dark, pained chuckle.

“Scare _you_? I could ask the same of you,” he mumbled, but there was the slightest smile on his lips.

The door burst open and Sherlock exploded into the room.

“I solved the -,” he started before his eyes took in the scene in front of him and his voice lost its victorious note, “case.”


	7. The Lies We've Told

_If he doesn't care, why do you?_

Sherlock twitched forward only to step back, seemingly unable to decide whether to storm into the room or bolt back down the stairs. He looked flushed, as if he had just run a mile, and his coat hang open, mud spattering its hems. John opened his mouth only to close it without as much as a gulp. He felt like a trespasser at his own house, but what could he say? Should he apologise? For what? How to explain a world he himself didn't understand? How to explain it to someone like Sherlock of all people?

_Why do you?_

John felt sick. He felt worse than after Sarah and the fake circus, worse even than after the pool. He had always stood side by side with Sherlock, no matter the circumstances. They were – had been – _should be_ a team. Opposing him was – it was no. He couldn't do that, not even with another Sherlock by his side. But was that what he was doing now anyway?

Of course none of the perennial facts had changed. Sherlock was still a bloody nuisance. He could, and often did make John angry, or exasperated, or borderline homicidal with his loudness and demands and experiments and general madness. He could forget John's existence or drug him or mislead him for his own apparent amusement, but Sherlock was his friend. There was some sort of attachment there, John was fairly sure of it. He hoped so, anyway. Friends didn't tend to look at each other with such gaunt, defeated expressions.

_If he doesn't care._

The crime wall, and the weight Sherlock really hadn't needed to lose, and the outburst while cleaning John's wounds, and the five strands of hair under the microscope lens, they all did tell of caring, didn't they? But then again, Sherlock frequently lost his mind if the case was interesting enough, refused to sleep or eat or talk except for ordering John around and disparaging Anderson's attempts at thinking. The man could be very loud even when he was stone still and silent. He could ooze contempt through a perfectly pleasant smile.

No, that wasn't it. There was something different here, wasn't there? Surely John was more important than the countless nameless and faceless cases they'd solved together, Before? Yes, Sherlock could be obnoxious as hell during even the simplest of cases (no, scratch that, _especially_ during the simple cases), but the case was over now, wasn't it? John was back at home. The crime, if there had indeed been any crime at all, had been solved. John had returned, the gang had been captured. Sherlock should be back to normal, if not sooner then after he had slept it off for certain.

Sherlock hadn't returned back to normal, not straight away and not after sleeping.

_If he doesn't care._

Sherlock looked grey and old and tired, and so terribly, horribly unsurprised at finding them like this, entwined together, bodies pressed against each other.

_Why do you?_

“Oh shit,” John blurted out. “You fucking do -”

_Will caring about them help save them? Do your research, caring lark. I'm not the only one who gets bored. I'll continue not to make that mistake. Something new._

_I'm not a psychopath._

The memories washed over him, mixing and morphing, framed by Sherlock's smoothly articulated arguments and even smoother liar's face. In another part of his mind, the other Sherlock lamented over his fate and those he could have helped, could have saved if only he had been given a chance. Different men, but still similar, still the same. How same? The fury came upon John without warning.

“I do what?” Sherlock asked, completely bland. Bastard. John knew now. That passiveness was an act, nothing but a mask. How dare the bastard wear a mask with him?

“You do lie a lot,” John answered, mind reeling from the implications of his realisation. He felt like he had walked around blindfolded, and now it had been removed but his eyes couldn't cope with all the bright light pouring in. The world looked magnificent, and terrifying, and John had never been angrier.

Sherlock, shadowed by the doorway, drew his coat closed and gave him a hurt, surprised glance.

“I lie? _I_ lie? Me?”

“Yes, Mr High-Functioning Sociopath, you,” John snarled.

“Well, I'm so happy you've never uttered a single untrue word, Mr Not Gay.”

That gave John a pause. But that – that was completely different, wasn't it? Of course it was. He hadn't known, hadn't even suspected.

_Sure you did._

“Finally,” the other Sherlock muttered, leaning back until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking from one of them to the other as if he was following a mediocre tennis match.

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock sneered.

“The correct term,” John said at the same time, glancing at the very spot where he'd had this same discussion with his lover only some weeks ago, “is bisexual. Which I have realised I am. So there. Yeah.”

Oh God. He had actually said that aloud. He had admitted he was attracted to – men, or at least one man, while that very man was present. What now? What was he supposed to do now?

“Me, I'm just plain gay,” Sherlock commented from the floor, somehow managing to sound both devious and innocent at the same time, wonderfully stopping John's spiral towards panic. Lovely Sherlock, John didn't appreciate him nearly enough.

The other Sherlock stared, still stuck on the doorway. Having got his steam back, John glared at him and waited for some stupid snub of a comment to shoot down. It never came. Sherlock just stood and blinked and swayed gently. He looked ready to fall over if someone as much as sneezed. Well, at least the walls would be close if he needed to steady himself.

“He was very slow,” the other Sherlock pointed out. “But not as slow as some other people here, it seems.”

“I -,” said Sherlock, and then sounded very surprised at hearing his own voice.

“Yes?” John asked. He hadn't meant it to come out quite so dangerously, but there it was, a glove on the table. Sherlock seemed to hear the challenge too, because he twitched at the word, then shook his head forcefully.

“I solved the case,” he repeated, nodding promptly, as if trying to convince someone that was what he had meant to say all along. John's glare dimmed. What? Sherlock couldn't take him for this big of a fool, could he?

“It was my case,” the other one complained at once. “You stole my case, you brute. It was mine, and you took it. Anyway, she's innocent. He had that much right.”

John glanced down. Him, too? Were they actually serious about this?

“Of course she's innocent,” Sherlock snorted. “That was never the question. But do you know where the painting is?”

“You want to talk about that now?” John couldn't help but ask. He had thought he had the hang of the conversation. This time, he had been sure he'd got it right.

Both of Sherlocks rolled their eyes at him, as if he was the slow one in the room. “Is there something else to talk about?”

John raised his hands into a shrug. “I dunno, this? Like, all of this?”

Sherlock frowned at him, one of his uglier frowns. “I don't know what's more to discuss about that. You figured out your – your sexuality,” he said, stumbling a bit over the words. “Congratulations, I suppose. Meanwhile, there's a painting missing. One of these things has a time limit. The auction is coming up. So, I ask you again,” and he turned back towards his double, “do you know where it is?”

“How could I know that?” Sherlock answered, sounding irritated. “Judging by the secondhand information I've been given, I'd say one of his other employees took it. We should look for grudges, failed relationships, missed promotions and so on. Unless of course you have something to share.”

“But what about -”

“I do,” replied the other one, sounding smug and talking right over John. “I visited the auction house. I thought Mr Molesey looked familiar. The place is just down the road. He walks past here almost every day. Anyway, apart from our friend and this Betty person, there are about a dozen other permanent employees. I saw seven of them, none of whom would be capable of co-operation or long-time shamming on this level. But they're having a smaller auction tomorrow, a practice session or a hype raiser more probably. The rest of them will quite likely be there.”

“We should go,” Sherlock sighed dreamily.

“We are going,” the other one agreed.

“Hey hey, slow down,” John protested, finally spotting something he could grasp. “You can't both go! Remember what Mycroft said!”

“Mycroft,” Sherlocks snorted, pronouncing their brother's name like it was a thing commonly found trodden onto shoe soles and then scraped against the concrete. 

“He did have a point,” John argued. “You're the same person. That tends to attract attention.”

“He's quite remarkable, isn't he?” His Sherlock asked the other one, but his tone suggested he meant the exact opposite.

“Yes, in his denseness,” that one agreed curtly. “John, you gave us the perfect solution yourself. Meet my twin brother.”

“Your twin brother,” John repeated in horror, looking from the beaming face to the sulking one. “Twins. Heavens help us.”

“I don't see the problem,” Sherlock argued. “Many people have twins.”

“Yes, real, medically certified twins,” John said carefully. “You're one internet search away from being found out. There is no third Holmes brother in real life!”

Both of Sherlocks avoided looking at each other.

“Dear God,” John groaned. “There _is_ a third brother? Where have you hidden him? Is he just as – you, as you are? Or, God forbid, like Mycroft?”

Sherlock shuddered. “Don't be stupid, John. Of course there's no third brother. But as long as Mycroft keeps his current position, I wouldn't be so worried about those internet searches. We Holmeses are pretty well concealed.”

“Oh.”

“Or we used to be,” Sherlock continued. “Until certain person started blogging about my every movement. Still, any personal information is difficult to come by. This masquerade is quite safe, I assure you.”

“Greg will see through it in seconds,” John tried.

“I doubt it,” his Sherlock replied. “He can be my long-lost twin brother, only recently returned to UK from wherever. Lestrade will never figure it out. He's not known for his knowledge of quantum mechanics.”

“You mean you can be my -,” Sherlock started, but John, sensing war, cut in.

“Okay, but we need to come up with a name for this long-lost twin brother of yours.”

Sherlock waved his hand, uninterested in such trivial things. “Pick one.”

“But it can't be just any random name,” John argued. “No way you and Mycroft could have a sibling with a normal sensible name like Scott.”

Sherlocks shared a long look. One asked the other something, using only his eyes. The other shook his head, causing the first one to roll his eyes.

“Fine. We won't use Scott,” his Sherlock granted, and John knew something was flying far over his head once again. Better get used to that. It was fast getting confirmed that sharing rooms with two Sherlocks made him feel even stupider than the one had managed.

“Well,” he stalled, trying to come up with a suitable, silly name. “What about Ernest? That's a strong, traditional name.”

Sherlocks looked horrified. Not Ernest, then.

“Edmund?” He tried, with no better luck. “Patrick? No, that's too human.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “Let it be Sherrinford.”

Now it was John's turn to stare. His Sherlock looked annoyed but didn't protest.

“Sherrinford?” John repeated. “That sounds like a horse breed!”

“Sherrinford will do,” said his Sherlock.

“Okay, okay, as you wish,” John answered. “And he's a consulting detective too?”

“There's only one!” Both Sherlocks barked at once.

Silence filled the room. The two children refused to look at each other. Mental pillows were thrown, forts built.

“You know what?” John decided. “You figure that out by yourselves.”

“He could be a – a scientist,” his Sherlock suggested. “A chemist. Or maybe a -”

“Don't say it,” the other one warned.

“Maybe what?” John asked.

“Don't you dare.” Certainly pouting now.

“A pirate.” Sherlock grinned.

–

At least the sofa didn't betray him. It was a bit too soft, a bit too narrow, utterly welcoming. The television was on, but John couldn't get invested in the eternally looping news reports. He felt trampled over and cheated out of his anger. Sherlock had lied to him, he knew it now, lied and lied since the first day they'd met. He remembered leaning against the downstairs corridor wall with his brand new flatmate, out of breath and giggling and alive in a way he hadn't been in months, wondering if maybe, _maybe_ they could at some point revisit their discussion at Angelo's. And then, only moments later Sherlock had crushed those hopes with his trademark sociopath shit. But somehow those feelings had crept back, time after time, only to be pushed away by some new stunt or dismissal of Sherlock's.

And they had been lies. They had all been damned lies.

He hadn't understood how bad it had been before meeting his lover, this other Sherlock who still was Sherlock but who didn't lie to him. And finally he had been allowed to look and touch and even admit that yes, John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes and had been for a long time. And it had been exhilarating, just as good as he would have imagined if he'd ever allowed himself to. (And maybe he had, during the deepest of sleeps, because the touching had been so easy, even with the added multiversal weirdness factor.)

And then they'd returned, cheated the laws of physics for the second time in a row, and John felt like he had been muted after that impossible journey. All of his revelations were still there, as real as ever, but he had to tiptoe around them, push his love and affection back into the shadows to not distress his first love, his first Sherlock. And somehow he still loved him, loved them both, because how could he not, and how twisted was that?

It just had to be a different kind of love, he told himself. A love for a brother, or a brother-in-law. So he had to be on guard, even more on guard than he'd been before. Earlier, he'd only had his own thoughts to distract him. Now there was an actual, real life moping Sherlock messing with his poor brain, sitting right next to the other one who had just confessed to having a biological need to be close to John.

He was fairly sure people had ended up in padded rooms for less.

His thoughts kept looping back, kept digging the same wound deeper and deeper.

So Sherlock had lied to him since the beginning. He _was_ capable of attachment. He _was_ capable of forming meaningful human relationships. It didn't matter to John that Sherlock didn't love him back. That was all right. He was an adult and could deal with that. But the months Sherlock had wasted making John feel like his feelings were poured into cold stones, useless and misread, no, uncomprehended, they were plain cruel. After all, Sherlock saw through everything and everyone in seconds. There was zero chance he hadn't cottoned on to John's heart ages ago, just like his double had.

Why did the bastard cling to his stupid sociopath lie so stubbornly? He had to care, dammit, he had to!

“John?” Sherlock asked, flopping down beside him and taking his right hand between his own, long fingers. John smiled at him before he had the presence of mind to check but yes, the dog tags were secured tightly around Sherlock's throat. He tugged, and Sherlock ended up leaning against his shoulder, his long limbs sticking into random directions. Apparently the man didn't have a skeleton at all, because he seemed completely comfortable where he was.

“Yeah?”

“Are you all right?”

They had taken John's wall down and put up a list of the possible painting thieves. Despite John's black mood it had been plain to see that some sort of understanding had been reached between the two men. They had moved freely around each other, their shoulders relaxed, faces unguarded. The three of them had discussed the suspects, but soon Sherlocks switched into some private lingo John couldn't hope to understand and he had retired to the sofa. He had no idea what had brought on the chance, what part of their peacemaking had flown right over his head. He was happy it had, however. Despite the feeling of dull disappointment Sherlock's lies had given him, he still was blissfully to happy to be back and have this man by his side.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” He braced himself, and then deliberately raised Sherlock's hand to his lips, kissing each of his fingers. “I'm glad you're here,” he said aloud, and was rewarded with a blinding smile.

“Me, too” Sherlock answered and leaned in for a proper kiss. John hesitated for a second. Why did this feel like he had taken a girl home and was making out with her in front of his parents?

_Grow up, Watson._

The kiss was slow and gentle, the kind of kiss made for leaning into, made for smiling into. It left John feeling about a hundred pounds lighter and twenty years younger. Sherlock kissed like he always did, eagerly but looking for a lead, accepting John's whims of nibbling at his lips or just holding him close and placing little wet pecks on his nose. God, but he loved this man. Just being close to him was therapy for his heart.

“He doesn't do it on purpose,” Sherlock whispered against his lips when the kiss had withered away.

John frowned and opened his eyes. At some point Sherlock had slid down to sit on his lap, his legs framing John's hips and his neck elegantly arched. He seemed quiet and serene, happy to stay exactly where he was, breathing in sync with John. What did he mean?

There was another exhalation tickling against the sensitive skin of his ear. But -

He turned his head.

Another Sherlock, eyes huge and unblinking, was perched on the opposing handrest. He stared at them like a cat transfixed by bright lights, lost in his thoughts. His mouth was forgotten slightly open, his forehead was wrinkled. He looked hopelessly befuddled.

“Taking notes?” John asked in exasperation.

It took Sherlock a moment to come back to himself. He cleared his throat, but didn't move away from the sofa like John had hoped he would. The situation was too weird. There hadn't been anything in his quite active and hormonal youth to prepare him for this. He wasn't even sure if he should be affronted or not. After all, he _was_ making out with a Sherlock, while another Sherlock had been watching. No, observing. Did he have the right to do that? It was his body after all. They weren't twins in real life. John found he couldn't force himself to complain, no matter how much he wanted to.

“I haven't seen you kiss a man before,” Sherlock said, and his voice sounded curiously formal.

“And?” John asked, because he had no idea what else to do.

“It's – different,” Sherlock said, and then his eyes grew even rounder. “The stubble must be a factor. And the angles of face,” and he touched his own face, his fingers absently running over those exact angles, and John wasn't at all sure that he realised he was doing it. 

“And the lips,” Sherlock continued, in some distress now, his tongue shivering between his own. “I hadn't expected the – the lips. I think. I should,” and he bolted off from the sofa and ran, actually ran through the living room and the kitchen into his bedroom, slamming the door shut after himself.

John gave a confused look to Sherlock, who was watching after his double. He still didn't know how he was supposed to act, but he was starting to understand that he wasn't the only one with that particular problem.

“I'll talk to him,” Sherlock promised and flopped down to sprawl half on John, half on the sofa. “But he's processing now. Temples, please.” And he sighed, pleased, when John's fingers started to obediently massage him. For a moment, everything was silent in the flat. John wondered what Sherlock was doing, if he had dived straight into his mind palace to file away this new experience of 'John Watson kissing a male'. Probably. Who ever knew with Sherlock?

“I never thought that it would be a good thing,” Sherlock said suddenly, and his eyes were bright in the shadowed room. “Never until I saw him. But now I think that it is. That it might have been.”

John waited for him to explain, to say something more, and after a long while he did.

“Not all of it, obviously,” and his voice was soft. “But some. That maybe it taught me something I wouldn't have learned otherwise.”


	8. The Price of Freedom

Sherlock didn't emerge from his room before noon, and even then he looked haggard and bleary-eyed as he collapsed into a kitchen chair, holding his head in his hands. Remembering many, many mornings like this, John silently placed a cup of coffee in front of him and went to put his coat on. Sherlock had probably stayed up most of the night, going through the case files and ignoring the next day's schedule and his own, dearly protesting body. Even if the carrot of the coffee wouldn't bring him to life, the stick tended to. And true enough, his sleep-deprived friend took one look at the cup, another at John, and wobbled to the staircase door, half his brain still out of business but all of him ready for fight.

“You are not coming.”

John stopped, one arm still out of its sleeve. His back was protesting the awkward angle, but this was too familiar, too perfect to postpone. He lowered his shoulders, widened his stance. Battle position.

“Then you aren't going.”

John glared at Sherlock, who was blocking the door. Sherlock glared at John, who continued staring him down. On his chair, Sherlock followed the proceedings with interest and not a small amount of glee, the Belstaff already secured in his lap. He had been nagging at John since dawn, eager to solve his first case here.

“Don't be an idiot. We can't let him go alone.”

John cocked his head, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He immediately promised himself to make damn sure that Sherlock would get his chance to go alone. But not yet, not today. “Why not?”

“Because he's – he's me! Only with this weird attitude! Who knows how badly he would mess up my reputation.”

“There's not much left of your reputation to mess up, Sherlock. I doubt he'd manage anything you don't yourself.”

“I'm right here,” the other Sherlock pointed out calmly, sipping his own coffee. John shot him an apologetic smile.

“Enough nonsense, we are all going. I'm fine, Sherlock. You look the worst of us.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and lowered his chin. “Just like mother,” his double muttered, but no one paid attention to him.

“No John, you aren't.”

“I am fine, and I'm not letting you two waltz off together. London is not prepared for that. Hell, _I'm_ not prepared for that.”

Sherlock gave a beautiful, theatrical sigh.

“John, you might have forgotten this, but you both almost drowned _and_ were shot two days ago.“

“So?”

“You're in pain! And you wheeze like somebody's great-great-grandfather!”

John's voice gained a dogged edge that raised a pale colour onto the sitting Sherlock's cheeks. He put his mug gently away and wiggled into a better position in the chair.

“That hasn't been a problem before. Remember when I tripped into that pond and got the flu? You insisted I still come to that river cruise with you. We ended up swimming to the damn shore. I couldn't walk straight for a week.”

“I swam. You tried to sit on me and swore quite a lot, if memory serves right. _And mine does._ And anyway, that only proves my point.”

“No, Sherlock, it doesn't. The point is that you aren't supposed to care about it! I'm coming.”

Sherlock threw a pleading look towards the chair. Its sprawling, blushing inhabitant shrugged, still holding onto the coat.

“Let it go, self. He said he's coming with us.”

“How can _you_ be all right with this?”

“It's his choice. Plus he's a doctor. One should hope he knows his own limits.”

Sherlock stared. “Do you not know this man at all?”

He got a wink as his double got up, slipped into the dark coat and gave John a smouldering look. “I know him very well indeed.”

By the door, Sherlock went very quiet and still for a second. Then he sputtered back alive with a horrified “John!”

“Yes?”

“He can't do that! Tell him to stop!”

John gave Sherlock a critical once-over. “I can't see what's your problem.”

“The coat, John!”

“Yes, it's a very pretty coat. Makes you look a bit like Dracula, though, with those flowing hems.”

The room was instantly filled with loud protests. John couldn't help but giggle along.

“Don't worry. It's not a Dracula coat. If anything, it's a Sherlock Holmes coat.”

The Sherlock-without-the-coat drew himself to his full height. In this company, it didn't impress anyone. “And I'm Sherlock Holmes.”

“That's getting old,” his double muttered, burrowing deeper into the Belstaff.

“Sherlock,” John barked, and both men immediately twitched towards him. “Not you,” he continued, rolling his eyes at the one who had thrown a tantrum over the stupid coat and now moped in the doorway.

“You're just as much Sherlock Holmes as he is,” he told his lover. “And you've got the same rights. Just share that thing a bit. He seems a tad touchy about it.”

“It is his coat, though,” Sherlock pointed out in a surprising bout of honesty.

“Funny thing that. I remember you wearing it.”

By the stairs, Sherlock stroke an artistic sulking pose. Poor man, nothing today had gone the way he would have wished it to. John wanted to ruffle his hair, but decided not to mess with him any more. The poor detective had got enough to chew for at least one evening already, and it was past the time to leave anyway.

“And you,” John told him, and meant it as an apology. “You get to keep the name.”

“The name?” Sherlock asked beside him, still holding onto the coat as if he afraid someone would steal it from him.

“Yep, my dear Sherrinford,” John answered. “Let's go then.”

–

Dragging two pouting adult-sized children down the street proved more exhausting than John had imagined. Or maybe Sherlock had had a point about him not venturing outside just yet?

Bollocks. It had to be the moping.

“Let's stop here for while,” he suggested, a little out of breath, when they finally reached the auction house. There was a shabby café right next to it, and Sherlocks took one look at his face and dragged him inside.

“You complete moron,” Sherlock huffed at him and pointed at a chair. “Sit. Stay. Fine my arse.”

A cup of tea and a biscuit were thrust towards him and served with a glare over the plate.

“Tell me honestly now, John. What were you planning to do if we end up in a knife fight while in there?”

John's senses started tingling alert. There was a very good chance that hadn't been a rhetorical question. “Did you plan on ending up in a knife fight?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I don't see your point.”

“His point is,” said his Sherlock, poking at the biscuit until it broke and stealing a part of it, “that he's concerned about you.”

The man who looked less concerned and more murderous muttered something vicious and probably profane, and refused to comment on such a preposterous idea.

“Oh,” said John, and thought for a moment. “Okay,” he continued, looking from one man to another. “Look, it's an auction house. As long as we refrain from any aggressive bidding I think we're safe. What about I find a place to sit and follow the auction while you do your thing?”

“So you admit you shouldn't have come.”

“There's no reason to think this would turn ugly! Or is there? What aren't you telling me this time? Any exploding nuns around here?”

“Exploding nuns?” The other Sherlock asked, looking very interested.

“That was just once, and it wasn't even a very good explosion! I told you, we should have used more -”

“Sherlock,” John said, patience personified.

“I'm thinking this could turn out to be the Holford case all over again,” Sherlock confessed, looking pained.

“Holford?” His double asked.

“That's what I was thinking about,” John sighed. “Careful, Sherlock. You got a black eye that time, and only that because I had time to block him.”

“If you'd been ready I wouldn't have gotten even the eye,” Sherlock muttered rebelliously.

“Really, Holford?” The other Sherlock repeated, annoyed at not understanding. Sherlock gave him an ugly grin.

“I'll explain it to you later, _Sherrinford_. Feeling better, John? Let's go then!”

–

“Mr Sherlock Holmes!” Mr Molesey exclaimed in surprise.

“Here,” said Sherlock, sounding supremely irritated.

“Oh sorry!” Mr Molesey apologised, still shaking the wrong hand. “I didn't realise, Mr -?”

“Sherrinford,” Sherlock continued after a heavy silence. “Sherrinford Holmes. _Sherrinford!_ ”

The owner of thus named appendage stood silent and wide-eyed, letting his arm be manhandled as the auctioneer saw fit. John gave him a sharp glance. Was something wrong? Sherlock had been fine a moment ago, out in the street. What had changed?

Apparently sensing he had placed himself into a bad corner, Mr Molesey took a step back and turned towards the other Sherlock.

“I'm sorry, I'm just surprised! I didn't know you were attending today, Mr Holmes!”

“That's the idea of it,” Sherlock answered with a pained smile. “I decided to come incognito. Part of the case if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh! Are you looking for clues?”

“Clues. Yes. Very important. Now, if you excuse us, we are just browsing,” and Sherlock gave him the fakest of all his fake smiles, underlined by a ghastly wink. The little man took the hint and scurried off, leaving behind one scowling consulting detective and his suspiciously quiet double.

“Sher - Sherrinford?” John asked, touching his sleeve.

“Look at all these people,” Sherlock answered, and his voice slurred just a bit. “Mingling. Just mingling. All together, without fear or aggression. It's so chaotic, it's – I didn't think it would be like this. Disorderly. Unpredictable. Who's in charge, John?”

“Um, I guess that would be Mr Molesey.”

“ _Him?_ Are you _sure_?”

“What does it matter?” Another Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. “We're here for the case, not for sociogramming.”

That seemed to shake Sherlock out of his daze. A familiar glint appeared in his eyes and he gave John a weak smile.

“Case, yes. Let's go.”

“Can I trust you two not to insult anyone into brutally attacking you?” John asked, not at all sure if he should let Sherlock away from his sight after that little outburst. 

He was rewarded with a feral grin. “You can trust us to try.”

 _And_ , John thought fondly as he watched them go, bickering to each other, _that's really as good as it gets._

–

John did as he had promised and sat down, keeping one eye on the auction and the other on his two mad faux-twin flatmates. They buzzed around the hall, peeking into everything peekable, talking to the employees and occasionally getting recognised. 

“Mr Holmes! Mr Sherlock Holmes!”

And it was always the one with the coat. It had to actually be some combination of the coat and the man in general consciousness, John mused to himself. People gravitated towards it. Whoever wore it was _the_ Sherlock Holmes. Crown really did make a king. The official Sherlock became dourer and dourer as the day progressed.

“That's me.”

“Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realise – I'm a big fan of your blog! You do great work, I especially enjoyed the one with all the comics.”

John smiled. He had liked that one too. Sherlock had made a very presentable ninja.

“It's not my blog.”

“It's not? And this charming gentleman is?”

The scowl on Sherlock's face would have soured already sour milk.

“This is my brother Sherrinford, he's just returned from his trip to – Tibet, where he spent a decade meditating and searching for himself. Who knows, he might go again, _very soon now_. It seems like there might be a need for that.”

The overly enthusiastic person turned towards 'Sherrinford', all starry-eyed and beaming. John fought to keep his face neutral. Not his business. Not his business at all that Sherlock was talking to a random stranger. God knew he had earned the right. He was even looking this guy in the eye. Go you, Sherlock Holmes and your lifetime of being stomped on. 

“Oh, that's interesting. What was it like in Tibet? I'm very into Buddhist teachings myself. I've been doing yoga for years. It really sharpens the mind, doesn't it? Did you live with the monks?”

It turned out Sherlock had dumped geography, except that of London, to the same pile than astronomy, or maybe the chatterbox was getting more into his head than he was letting on. Anyway, he looked superbly awkward answering, and John had to grip his chair to not march there and whisk him away. And was it just his imagination, or did Sherlock twitch in rhythm with everything that was said?

“Yes, the monks. Lots of them. Very orange. And it was so – cold. Many mountains. Snow. Herbal tea, I suppose. Say, whose painting is that?”

“That's one of Lowry's! Fascinating, isn't it? His works never cease to amaze me, especially when you take into account that -,”

A round, well-formed arse in a figure-hugging black dress blocked John's view of the action. He frowned. What the hell was it now? He looked up to complain. The woman was a long-haired brunette, busily tapping at her phone's screen.

“Would you mind moving a bit?” John asked, trying to sound polite.

“Mr Holmes sends his greetings,” the brunette said, eyes still glued to her phone. “And he would also like to remind you that taking them outside at the same time can only lead to trouble.”

Oh. Mycroft. Of course. John rolled his eyes. “Taking them outside alone tends to lead to trouble, too,” he pointed out. “Also, they aren't dogs. They can damn well make their own choices and face the consequences. Now, move a bit, would you?”

“Mr Holmes politely disagrees,” the woman replied, staying her ground. “He wants to know the cover story.”

“They're twins.”

“Name?”

“Sherrinford.”

That made the woman smile for some reason, but her fingers never stopped moving on the phone's screen. John tried to peek around her. He couldn't see either of Sherlocks. Great. Just great.

“Reason he hasn't been seen before?” Oh, so she was still talking? John shrugged.

“He's been abroad. Long lost twin brother.”

“Elaboration?”

“I don't know! Sherlock said something about Tibet and monks just now. I guess that's official then.”

“Thank you, doctor Watson. Mr Holmes will send for you in the near future.”

“Of course he bloody will, when doesn't he,” John muttered, but the woman had already turned around and walked away. The auction crawled on. People were busily inspecting and bidding on the merchandise, but Sherlocks were nowhere to be seen. John leaned back, fuming. If Sherlock, his Sherlock, either of them, was in trouble, Mycroft would pay.

–

He decided to give them thirty minutes, but checked his phone after forty seconds, already agitated.

Bugger.

His mind unhelpfully reminded him of Sherlock, breathing violently and pressing his face into his shirt, holding onto it like it was a lifesaver. If one enthusiastic fan had been enough to throw him off-balance, what would an openly hostile one manage? Or, God forbid, one of the bedroom types?

But Sherlock could fend for himself. Of course he could, he was Sherlock after all -

Sherlock of the huge, black, obedient eyes, Sherlock of the knife cuts, Sherlock of the gag and the crop.

Two minutes. It had only been two fucking minutes, and John was already about ready to commit homicide.

But he had to allow Sherlock space. The man had never been given a chance to prove himself, to pursue his passions! John refused to be the one to break his spirit once again. He had to trust him. And Sherlock wasn't alone, he had to remember that. Just because John wasn't out there, watching over his lover's shoulder, didn't mean Sherlock would be helpless, or in trouble, or even alone. After all, Sherlock ditched him all the time, taken by one whimsy or another. Better get used to it again because this wouldn't be the last time John would be left on the proverbial shore.

A vase was sold, then a necklace, followed by two jewellery boxes. Time crawled on. John sat and breathed and didn't pay much attention to anything that was going on around him. Somebody won a grandfather clock. Some other person spoke loudly on her phone, arranging the transport of 'the item.'

He had promised to sit and wait. Why the hell had he promised that?

Twenty-eight minutes and counting. His hands were absolutely still. The hair on the nape of his neck was standing to attention. He decided to switch to counting back the seconds.

There was a sudden shout from the back rooms, and a man – tall, dark, with flailing hands and feet, came crashing through the door, and John moved without thinking, without the slightest jolt of surprise. He grabbed his chair, one of those plastic, foldable things with heavy metal feet, and he ran towards the door, just in time to see it open again. He raised the chair for a full swing, the seat pointing up, and as soon as the next person showed his head – spiky brown hair was all he had time to notice – he sent the chair crashing down. It hit its target with a satisfactory CLONK and down the man went, the chair following after him. 

_Still twitching,_ John had time to notice, but then his attention was on Sherlock, who was down, holding his head and trying not to groan aloud. He couldn't remember travelling the short distance between them or dropping to his knees, but the next thing John knew was that he had his fingers digging into those dark curls, feeling for any abrasions in the skin, his heart doing double duty but his mind staying stunningly bright and calm.

“Half an hour!” he complained, raising Sherlock's chin to peek at his eyes, running his hands over the long, slim arms and the ribcage containing his friend's frantically beating heart. No blood, no wounds, thank god. Just a chase, a hit and a tumble through the door, another normal Thursday in detecting business. “I left you two alone for thirty bloody minutes! I knew it was a god-awful mistake! Stop trying to move, can you even stand? _And where in bloody hell is he?_ ”

Sherlock mumbled something that could have been 'outside' or it could have been 'ouch', or even 'shut up', but his efforts to get up didn't cease. He at turns tried to push John away and then use him as a handle to haul himself up from the floor. Recognising a hopeless fight, John helped him to his feet. Once up, Sherlock kept his balance, even though he was swaying a little. John drew him close anyway, holding to his hips just in case. The last thing Sherlock needed for his aching head was to take another nose-dive to the floor. Their would-be attacker, or art thief, or whatever the man on the floor was, stayed unconscious. John gave the chair a dubious glance. The seat was in two pieces. How hard had he hit this guy?

“He's our Holford?”

“Good hit,” Sherlock grunted, massaging his head with tender fingers.

“I found it!” Another Sherlock appeared through the abused door, stopping to stare at the body on the ground. John let go of the thin set of hips he had been holding to, feeling awkward and guilty. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to notice or mind. He was carrying a yellowish bundle of something, and his eyes shone with the high of the chase. He looked victorious, radiant, and for a moment John forgot how to breathe in a very teenage way.

“Mr Holmes!” Mr Molesey pushed through the gathering crowd and dispelled John's enchantment. “And Andrew! What's going on?”

“Your lost painting,” Sherlock replied and offered him the dirty bundle, all brilliant smiles. “And your burglar, too.”

“What? But! Andrew? Oh good heavens!” Mr Molesey opened the bundle and his eyes bulged. “It's true! I – I -,” around him a quiet whispering was fast turning into loud, excited gossip. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the auctioneer announced, hugging the bundle carefully to his chest. “Our stolen Turner has been found! Next week's auction can proceed as planned! And it's all thanks to Mr Sherlock Holmes here!”

A loud cheer was raised in the crowd, and then everybody turned to Sherlock, faces expectant.

“The pleasure was all mine,” Sherlock said, grimacing and massaging his battered head. “It was the Holford case after all.”

“I'm sorry?” Mr Molesey asked.

“Christopher Holford was a disgruntled gardener to Lady Lamsden. To revenge the perceived insults by both her and her daughter, Mr Holford stole the Lady's jewellery box and planted clues leading to her daughter, trying to rip the family apart and earn himself a fortune in the process. The local police fell for that trick. Luckily for the Lady, I happened to be in town, investigating a very uninspired arson.”

“What has that got to do with Andrew?”

Sherlock took one look at the unconscious young man.

“Unfitting suit, either borrowed or he's lost a lot of weight recently. He's let his hair grow out, and his shoes were old already a year ago, no amount of grooming can mask that. He's used to having his fingers manicured, but has stopped going to the salon and tries to manage them himself. Monetary troubles. Doesn't wear a ring, but there's a slight line showing on his finger. Tell me, Mr Molesey, was this _Andrew_ engaged to your Betty?”

The auctioneer stared at him. “Oh my God. Last spring, when he first came here. It was just a fling, over before it had even started. She stopped it.”

“There's your motive, then. Has he got a permission to access your vault?”

“He drives our van. Transports the items. I think he knows someone in the City, where the storage is.”

“You might want to mention that to the police,” Sherlock advised him and turned to make his leave. “An insider accomplice would have made his job much easier. Have your security hold him and call the Yard. They know who to ask if they've got any questions.”

“Please, wait! Why did he bring it here?”

Sherlock flashed him a predatory grin. “Pride. He knew he had gotten away with it and wanted to bask in his own cleverness. Too bad for him that you came to me. Good day, Mr Molesey.”

 _There really is something missing_ , John mused, _when Sherlock makes his exit without those flying hems._

Outside, in the street, the after-case rush was taking a new, delightful form.

“That was brilliant!” Sherlock laughed aloud, taking a couple of dancing steps and whirling around John, the Belstaff dancing around them. “Absolutely brilliant! Let's do another one!”

“I said before we even started, this was hardly a two,” another Sherlock answered, but even he couldn't hide the satisfied smile rising to his face.

“Lunch?” John asked, and everything was fine in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	9. Interlude II

An unlit corridor and two struggling men. It was not a fight, not quite, but more of an uncoordinated backwards scuffle. One of the men was whispering furiously, the other just breathed out of sync, stumbling after his companion.

“What was that? Sher– lock? Self? _Taggy_!”

“I – I –”

“Would you stop clinging to me! Someone might come here, and I won't have you torpedoing the case. Off!”

“I – sorry –”

“Let go! We've talked about this, I mean, I've talked about this with John. Do you know what he'd say right now?”

“John?”

“Yes, _John_ , you moron! People would talk, he'd tell you that. He tells me often enough. Get yourself together and let go of me!”

“Sorry, I, I can't, it's – John –”

“No! Don't do that! Not the knee hug!”

The other man might have been trying to say something, but given where his face was, it was difficult to be sure.

“What's wrong with you? Can't you breathe?” For the first time, there was some concern in the still mostly annoyed voice. “Is it an allergic reaction? No, stupid, I don't have any allergies. Was it that dullard out there? He was irritating, I grant you that, but I've never seen such bad lying in my life. It's like you haven't been on a case before.” 

Now the man was certainly saying something, but since his mouth was still pressed onto the other's skirt, it came out an unintelligible mumble.

“What?”

The standing man took a rough grip on the other's chin and raised it up, but what he saw on his face made him release his hold in horror. He tried to step back, but two strong hands still had a death-grip on his trousers.

“Your pupils! They're – oh _fuck_ self, are you high? Where did you, I didn't notice –”

“Not. High. A st – stress –”

“You're talking now? Any chance you might let go and get up? If someone comes in, we're busted. Also, brothers don't do this where I'm from.”

Gingerly, the man let go of the other, as if afraid he might disappear with the lost connection. His breathing, however, became steadier and his face regained its lost colour. He grimaced self-consciously at his companion.

“A stress reaction. I'm not high. Sorry. I didn't mean to do that.”

“A _stress_ reaction? Taggy, that looked like something a lot more serious to me. Now get up from there, you've just about destroyed my trousers. _Both_ my trousers. We'll discuss this later, but we're here to do some detecting. With stress reactions like those tell me honestly, have you got any experience of this stuff?”

The man did as he was told, drawing his heavy coat tighter around himself. It took him a long while to answer, and when he did, he had trouble meeting the other's eye.

“I haven't been allowed.”

“Allowed!”

A brief flash of grey eyes, and then the man specified. “I still do. Have experience, I mean. But,” and he took a moment to gather himself before blurting out, “not nearly as much as you do.”

The other one still hadn't got over his earlier shock. “Allowed? And you _care about that_? Why – no, never mind that now. Do you even know what we're looking for?”

“Items where they shouldn't be. No items where there should be some. Clues.”

“Hmm. Fine. Let's go then. You'll forgive me for distrusting your abilities today. That door there, can you pick locks?”

The door was open in a few seconds. The man slipped his tools back to the pocket of the coat and glanced at the other for approval.

“Good. Let's go in and tell me what you see. _Everything_ that you see.”

They exited that room several minutes later in much better mood.

“I guess I can take you on as a protégé. Can't have you sullying the family name after all. Let's try that door on the right.”

The next room contained one angry Andrew Perkins, and while one of the men hurried off after him, the other stayed behind, only to jog after them a moment later with a large, yellowish package in tow and the kind of smile on his face that promised wicked, wicked things for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	10. Photos

Mycroft, damn him, was as good as his promise, and John was whisked away in a smoke-glassed black car only some days later. His lair was still identical to the one a world over, down to the three red pencils arranged by size close to the corner of his massive table. John leaned back on the visitor chair, a plain barely cushioned thing that was drilling a horribly-placed wood carving through his back. Trust the spook to find the most uncomfortable furniture possible for his 'guests'.

John hated that chair, but not as much as he hated this discussion.

“No you fucking won't.”

He was treated to a Holmesian head tilt taken to absurd lengths. The message was clear – John had proved to be a disappointment, and while Mycroft had known to expect it, he had still hoped to be pleasantly surprised. It was a look John's mother had perfected several decades ago, and still Mycroft somehow pulled it off better. Meanwhile, the seat was digging a trench into his spine. John refused to budge an inch. 

“Don't be unreasonable, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft sighed. “I know for a fact you haven't seen any kind of medical professional since your – incident. All I want to do is make sure you have recovered. You look quite strained right now.”

“Make sure I've recovered,” John repeated, deciding to ignore the rest of the sentence. Strained his arse. He'd had lifetime's worth of a Mycroft sticking needles to him, but at least the other one had never pretended it was for his own benefit.

The current version of Mycroft continued looking mildly constipated.

“Doctor Watson, it has recently come to my attention just how much my brother values your well-being. Having another incident of any kind would be very unfortunate.”

“So you're threatening me,” John observed, stuck on the idea of Sherlock valuing his well-being. He guessed that was technically correct, but it took Mycroft to jump from that to _this_.

“Of course not!” Mycroft replied with the same voice he had used to declare himself a minor official of the British Government. Exasperated didn't begin to cover it. “All I ask is a couple of x-rays and a visit to a general practitioner.”

“I'm a doctor myself,” John pointed out. “If there was something wrong, don't you think I would be aware of it?”

If the spook's smile could have got any thinner, it would have cut glass.

“No offence meant, but you don't have the best track record of taking care of yourself.”

John's mind went steel cold. That was low, even by Mycroft's standards. “I see.”

“That's what my brother is for,” Mycroft continued, and it was _not_ the coup de grâce John had been expecting. For a second, he forgot to watch his words. A second was, naturally, all the bastard needed to get into his head.

“You – you think it's _Sherlock_ who takes care of _me_?”

Mycroft's eyebrow did something wavy and complicated that nonetheless conveyed a lot about missing canes, past nightmares and regained weight, not to mention unequally split rent and grocery money. John's hands rested in his lap, perfectly steady. He breathed in, and out, and in once again, thinking about stripping himself off the perpendicularly arranged wall at home, thinking about the forgotten newspaper next to the sofa and the five strands of hair under the microscope lens.

He had always thought himself the caretaker to Sherlock's eccentricities, the one who made sure the bills were paid and that the edible things were kept separate from the several exotic bacteria cultures Sherlock had brewing in the fridge. He was the one to stand between Sherlock's oblivious genius and the – usually – righteously angry audience. Not the most luminous, Sherlock himself had said. Not the most luminous, but invaluable in other aspects. John had taken pride in that, felt himself needed and useful, the minder of the avalanche. He had never considered their roles could be reversed. That, in some ways, it was Sherlock who kept him going.

Mycroft picked lazily up the shortest of the red pencils, twirled it around his fingers and put it down in the exact same place. 

The trouble with himself, and this John had come to realise years ago, a long time before meeting Sherlock, was that he was a painfully private man. Even some things that really should have been talked about, he couldn't mention. Many things that should have been done went undone. The prime example was his strained relationship with Ella. Yes, she tried to support him, but all the while when she was doing that John just wanted to yell at her to leave him bloody well alone. He didn't do well asking for help.

With Sherlock, he never had to say anything. Sherlock knew anyway, made the difficult things easier and lent his wallet or attention or time or whatever even before John could ask for them.

And now his back was protesting and he was out of breath for no reason at all, and Mycroft looked unbearably smug. 

John sighed, took his phone and dialled a number. Damn the spook, but he was right. John had been stupid about this. He was a doctor, he should have known better.

“Hello, this is John Watson. I'd like to see a doctor, please. It's somewhat urgent.”

The call was brief. John repocketed the phone and nodded. After several seconds, Mycroft returned the gesture.

“Excellent. Now that that has been dealt with, I have some questions for you.”

John's mind immediately leaped to the most likely candidate and took up its gatekeeper duties in full battle mode. He could accept failing himself, but Sherlock never.

“He's none of your business.”

Mycroft's nose did the scrunchy Sherlock thing. On his face, it looked less ridiculous and more toxic.

“Oh, I wouldn't dream about interfering in your – happiness.”

“No, God forbid you'd do any such thing,” John deadpanned, utterly fed up with these games.

“Exactly. But there is something I'm worried about.”

“And this interests me because?”

“It's James Moriarty.”

And, fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. Not this again. He'd already dealt with this shit once. But that had a world over, another Mycroft and another Moriarty and totally another fucking game.

He was _tired_ of this bloody situation.

“I'm listening,” he sighed. 

Mycroft, of course, read everything from his face, or his shoulders, or his right nostril for all John knew. He was merciful, or maybe he was just getting tired of leading him around in circles, but he cut straight to the point.

“You might not know this, but James Moriarty was recently set free.”

John's temper boiled over in a second.

“Now wait a moment! You're telling me you had him secured into some cell somewhere, underground with no air holes preferably, and then you bloody let him go? What's wrong with you? Do you fucking _enjoy_ wanton destruction?”

The thin smile of blandness made a return. “We had our reasons. My brother would tell you that James Moriarty is a spider in the middle of a web. We had the spider, but we couldn't seize all the web. That is going to change. There's a plan, Doctor Watson, and you can rest assured that until its fulfilment, James Moriarty will be constantly monitored. There will be no repeat of the bombings.”

“It's not just the bombings I'm concerned about,” John said and was surprised to hear it come out a snarl. Mycroft gave him a lethally benevolent nod.

“I'm aware. I have discussed this with my brother, and he has agreed to the plan. That was, however, before you turned up with – my other brother.”

“Sherlock isn't -,” John started automatically, remembering his lover's horrified denial of any kinship with this version of Mycroft Holmes, but he was cut short.

“Spare me your theatrics. You know of Moriarty's puerile interest in Sherlock. Now tell me, what kind of history does _he_ have with Moriarty?”

“They met twice,” John answered, mind seething. “The first time, Sherlock made him tea. The second time, he shot his head off his shoulders. There might have been some stuff in between. I forget.”

“He -,” Mycroft started, and actually sounded surprised. “Oh my. It seems I might have misjudged him. Tell him my congratulations.”

“He's not interested in your approval.”

“No,” Mycroft mused. “He isn't, is he now? Fascinating fellow, that Sherlock Holmes. I will have to arrange a talk with him, too.”

John's fist met the table without his conscious input.

“You will do no such thing,” he stated. “He doesn't want you. You won't kidnap him, or spy on him, or eavesdrop on him. He's out of limits to you. If I find out you've approached him at all, you lose my co-operation and I'll have Sherlock's homeless network piss on all your little tendrils in the city. Is that clear?”

“Your distrust in me borders on pathological,” Mycroft protested, but John refused to take the bait.

“Call it what you want, I couldn't care less. You don't go near him. Am I understood?”

Mycroft's patient non-expression made it very clear John wasn't understood at all.

“And if I have to contact him, for example about the Moriarty situation. You do realise it might place him, too, in danger?”

“Then you'll call me and we'll settle it like adults.”

“Adults,” Mycroft replied tonelessly. “I do wonder where that leaves him.”

“In a place you can't even imagine,” John answered, unwilling to elaborate any further in case Mycroft could somehow pry the truth from his eyelashes. Knowing the man, it wasn't an impossible idea at all.

“Let me rephrase. If I do as you – ask, and leave him alone for now, you will continue being your helpful self. You will answer my calls, you will agree to these meetings. You will understand that this is a matter of national security and act accordingly.”

“I've seen one Moriarty die,” John told him and was gratified to see Mycroft flinch. “And I have a personal interest in the fate of this one. He won't lay a finger on Sherlock, any Sherlock. You can be sure I'm committed to that. I'll fucking kip on your sofa if I have to.”

The elder Holmes nodded. “I must stress though he may end up in trouble anyway. Sherlock has gathered himself a reputation among people who have nothing to do with James Moriarty. My ability to help would be limited if he's not kept under surveillance.”

“Worry not,” John flashed him an evil smile. “Sherlock is very capable of getting into trouble all by himself. There are no extra incentives needed. And now, if you excuse me, I have a press conference to attend.”

“Yes, the stolen Turner,” Mycroft murmured. “Such an elementary case. I wonder what made him accept it in the first place.”

“Call it a favour for a friend.”

“Sherlock doesn't have friends.”

John gave him another tight grin. “Think again.”

–

To be honest, John had expected the press conference to become a problem, but to his amazement Sherlocks dealt with it with no fuss whatsoever. It was decided that only one of them would attend because 'Sherrinford' was officially just a visitor. Sherlock had put it bluntly and without any opposition from his double.

“Taggy, you aren't coming.”

That had literally been all it took. John had been ready to step in, soothe ruffled feathers or argue on his lover's behalf, whatever would be needed, but Sherlock had just nodded and that had been that. The whole situation had left John feeling wrong-footed. Since when had he taken orders from anybody so meekly? Something was once again flying far over his head, and he couldn't figure out what it was.

Well, that left him with just one version of Sherlock Holmes to wrangle with in public. Currently, the man was side-eyeing a little present box offered to him by the beaming Mr Molesey. A dozen photographers stood ready to capture the moment.

“Diamond cufflinks,” Sherlock declared, and the cameras clicked away, immortalising the baffled faces of John and Mr Molesey both. “All my cuffs have buttons.”

“He means to say thank you,” John corrected, giving their little host an apologetic smile and stepping on protesting consulting toes.

Getting Sherlock to stay for the questions was the most difficult part. The man was itching to get away and answered only a few of the issues the reporters threw at them. No, he didn't work for the police. Yes, Andrew Perkins had stolen the painting and set up Elizabeth Brown. Yes, Scotland Yard had taken her into custody, but she had been released already. Yes, Sherlock was definitely cleverer than a bunch of inane officers, but anybody with even half a brain should have been able to crack this one. _Honestly_ , people, do you even manage to find your shoes in the morning?

Privately, John was happy they were there together. The almost overwhelming attention would have driven his lover up the walls. At least if his reaction to the auction earlier that week had been anything to go by.

Sherlock had been quiet that night, not thinking or traipsing around in his mind palace, but small and silent in that dirty, exhausted way that left people drooping and slow. He had sat in the kitchen, contemplating a half-empty cup of cold coffee. John wasn't used to seeing such inaction from his lover. The other Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind, buzzing between the microscope and the violin, but John had been worried. And when his lover had excused himself to the bed before ten, John hadn't been able to take it any more. Asking had been easy in the end.

“Do you mind if I go with him, just for this one night?”

Sherlock had shaken his head no and John had tiptoed into the bedroom, wrapped himself around his lover's skinny, silent frame and held on until the morning. The next evening, Sherlock had implied that he should go again, and so he had. He didn't know where Sherlock slept.

He didn't know if Sherlock slept. Judging by his irateness, maybe he didn't.

Another round of photographs brought John back to the present. The questions started shifting away from the case and to the personal matters. Immediately, Sherlock decided they were done and skulked off with John in tow. He even hailed them a cab despite the short journey home just to get rid of the mob of the journalists on the street. 

The silence inside the car felt like an oasis after the landslide of attention moments earlier. John leaned back into the seat, sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. Next to him, fabric rustled as Sherlock fidgeted in place, rubbing his leather-clad hands together.

“Be careful, or you'll become famous. Wouldn't want to handle those people daily.”

Sherlock snorted. “I didn't see you handling them.”

“Oh, I had an integral part in keeping you from tearing them to pieces. Also, I'm going to blog all about it now that the case is officially closed.”

Sherlock was quiet for a while. When he spoke again, his voice was hesitant.

“You'd still do that? Even with him around?”

John frowned. “Of course. Sherlock, you're my partner in this. And I'm yours. If you want it.”

Sherlock was silent for another long moment.

“I'll always want you, John. As a – partner. Or could we settle on friends?”

The smile came out of nowhere. John knew he had to be beaming rather madly, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do about that. He kept his eyes carefully on the window.

“Good. Friends is good.”

The cab turned to Baker Street, and John realised the bad news at once. A familiar car was parked under their windows. John swore and even Sherlock sat up straight, ready to spring out as soon as the cab would stop. But then again, he always did that to avoid having to pay the fare. Well, today he bloody well could contribute every single penny of it.

“Is he inside with him? Of course he is! I swear to God, that man has bloody awful timing!”

Sherlock shrugged, poised to bounce off as soon as the cab slid to a stop.

“Come on, John. What's the worst that could happen?”

John groaned. “Don't you know anything? That's the one question you're never meant to ask! What's the worst? Do you want an alphabetised list? Sit down and pay, I'm going in!”

He threw the door open and ran up the stairs, mind brimming with terrible scenarios, each direr than the last one. What if Anderson was in there? What if it was Sally? What if they were all yelling at him? Sherlock had been so quiet, so subdued recently. Could he take it?

Lestrade jumped in surprise as he stumbled in through the door, wild-eyed and panting.

“John! You're really back! I was talking to Sherlock and he told me all about it, but you know how he gets. But you're really here!”

John stared. Just Lestrade. Just Greg. “You were talking to Sherlock.”

“Well, obviously,” Lestrade answered, pointing at the familiar figure in the leather chair. “John, are you all right? You seem upset.”

“Fine,” John answered, mind and voice hollow. “Just fine.”

In the chair sat Sherlock Holmes. Not John's friend Sherlock, and certainly not his lover Sherlock, but the idea of Sherlock Holmes, a man made of haughty lines and severe angles, a man who gave John a brief glance before returning his attention to the strings of his violin.

This time, wrong-footed didn't even begin to cover it. 

And then the door opened again behind him, and Sherlock said, no, whined,

“Well, that was absolutely unnecessary of you,” and Lestrade jumped again, letting out some very imaginative phrases, and turned around, and turned again, and John closed his eyes.

“Greg, this is -,”

“My brother Sherrinford,” drawled Sherlock-in-the-chair.

“A pleasure,” said Sherlock-behind-John, offering his hand, and Greg had seen him fibbing a thousand times but still he took it, and shook it, and introduced himself. John wanted to hit him.

“A twin brother!” Greg exclaimed. “You never told me you had a bloody twin!”

“You never asked me,” said Sherlock, the damn liar.

Greg turned towards John, eyes huge. “Did you know?”

“I had no idea,” John replied honestly. He didn't enjoy lying to Greg, but really, the man was a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, shouldn't he figure out something was amiss? And anyway, explaining felt like an awful idea. Where should he even start? What about Moriarty? Mary? And for now Greg only had eyes for Sherlock-number-two, who was actually the Sherlock he had known and sworn at for years. They were still shaking hands, for god's sakes. Sherlock was smiling, one of his more insane smiles.

“So where have you been hiding, then? Sherrinford, was it? Wait until Sally hears about this! I have to take a photo. Would you mind going to stand next to him? She won't believe me otherwise.”

“Boring,” declared Sherlock-of-the-day. “Tell me of the case.”

“There's a case?” John asked. Sherlock, still smiling like a lunatic, went where Greg asked and posed for yet another photo session. They made quite a couple, one of them sulking and one grinning, identical in every aspect except expression.

“He wouldn't have bothered coming otherwise,” the sitting Sherlock answered, still pouting. 

“Is it a murder?” The other Sherlock asked with great interest, coming to peek at Greg's phone's screen and keeping up his friendly and approachable persona. Really, what was he trying to accomplish?

Greg stared. “Don't tell me you're _that_ identical.”

John let out an inward groan. The truth would be revealed, of course it would, and John would never be done explaining. And there was another Moriarty on the loose, and his back was still complaining, and someone would be listening to his bloody lungs tomorrow. He couldn't possibly take anything else at this point -

“I'm just an amateur,” Sherlock said, sounding completely fine with the outrageous lie escaping from his mouth. “I only have a passing interest in crime. And you are the Detective Inspector my brother has been speaking about. He has nothing but praise for you. You must be very good.”

John had to get away from here before he'd accidentally punch someone.

“Tea?” He croaked, already fleeing for the kitchen. So Sherlock wanted to mess with their heads. This had to be his punishment for slacking off during the attack of the journalists. Or, dear God, had Sherlock seen his discomfort and decided to help him? And why did it sound like he was trying to _flirt_ with Greg?

When had John's sense of reality evaporated so completely?

Lestrade, meanwhile, wasn't coping much better. “He – has said that? That's very – nice of him. I think.” He was doing his best not to stare at the seated Sherlock, who himself was giving his double a veritable death glare.

“Don't mind Sherrinford. He's very excitable, we tend to keep him out of public for that very reason. Now, tell me of the case.”

“Yes, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock purred, driving John to drop the mug he was washing. “Tell us all about that case of yours.”

Greg's voice sounded alarmed and a bit muffled. John couldn't turn and look. What the hell was Sherlock doing?

“Yeah, it's – right – it's a kidnapping. Or we think it is, there hasn't been a ransom yet.”

If Sherlock said something about how terrible that was, John would certainly punch someone.

“Oh that's just horrible,” Sherlock crooned, and John broke the plate he was washing.


	11. The High Functioning Sociopath

Sherlock had gone out for drinks with Lestrade.

John shook his head. That needed repetition.

Sherlock. Had gone out.

For drinks. For _nightclubbing._

With a very flustered Greg Lestrade. If John hadn't been hallucinating, the DI had mouthed something very much resembling 'help me' before being hauled out of the door and down the stairs. By his tie.

So, Sherlock had taken Lestrade out, wearing motherfucking jeans and a black silk shirt so scandalous the buttons had probably already given up on life and were scattered across the streets of London, weeping for a less demanding master.

While apparently somebody, somewhere, was being kidnapped.

John sat on the sofa and wondered when he had lost it so completely. He came to the conclusion it must have been around the time he was born, or maybe a bit earlier. Definitely before Afghanistan. He tried to remember a life before Sherlocks, but compared to his present surroundings that seemed far away, dull and colourless. Sighing, he looked over to the kitchen where another Sherlock, one with shiny ridiculous titanium dog tags around his neck was poring over the case files Greg had helplessly left him before being dragged away by a very determined 'Sherrinford Holmes'.

Well, at least somebody here was behaving in expected ways. His lover had fallen over the files, emerging only to give John an excited grin and a “I've never had a kidnapping before, John!” That had been almost an hour ago. Since then, Sherlock's grin had faded but his interest had stayed as keen as ever.

“Any luck with those?”

And the other Sherlock, the thoughtless ponce that he was, hadn't sent a single text during the whole evening. What were they up to? What was _he_ up to?

“Hmm,” Sherlock answered, his attention still at the papers. “I've got six theories so far, very broad ones. It's a pity he isn't here. It's useful to get another insight into these things. He's got so much more experience than I have.”

“A pity,” John agreed, although he didn't feel the words the way Sherlock had intended. The memory of Sebastian Wilkes was still too fresh on his mind. It was poisoning the image of all the bankers. If this kidnapped guy was anything like Wilkes, John would find it very difficult to muster any sympathy for him. He sighed again and heaved himself up from the sofa, ignoring the twinge of pain at his back caused by the sudden movement.

“Tell me about it,” he asked, raising his hands to massage his lover's shoulders. Sherlock made a contented sound and let his head fall forward, revealing the tight fit of the chain against his skin. For a moment, John forgot all about bankers, kidnapped or otherwise.

“Shouldn't we loosen this a bit?” he murmured, drawing his fingers across the chain. That neck really was quite spectacular.

“Mmm, no. It's perfect,” Sherlock answered, a slow smile growing into his voice.

“The banker?” John encouraged him, gently pulling at the taut shoulder muscles. Sherlock's head lolled even lower, his breath coming out a hiss.

“Mark Staunton. Disappeared between office and home two days ago. There has been no ransom demanded so far. It could be something harmless like an overblown pub night, but his wife is adamant Staunton isn't the type.”

“It wouldn't happen to be a ploy between them to smuggle him out of a tight spot and profit on his insurance money?” John asked, remembering a bloodied car seat during some of the most frantic days of his life. Sherlock chuckled, and his shoulders jumped with the laughter under John's hands.

“I did read your blog, John. You're an atrocious writer, you know, but it was still very educational. And no, I don't think it's another insurance scam. That family is very well off. They would risk losing more than what there was to gain.”

“Then what are your theories?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before pushing John's hands away. When he spoke, his voice was irritated.

“He's been kidnapped and the ransom note is going to turn up very soon. He's been kidnapped but it's for another reason and there won't be any ransom. He was mugged by pure chance, and the body will or will not be found somewhere along his home route. He left voluntarily, either by his own design or because he was threatened by someone.”

“Well, that leaves a lot of wiggle room,” John pointed out, and Sherlock huffed in agreement.

“I told you John, I've never had a kidnapping before. These files have holes the size of Ireland in them. I don't understand how they get anything done if their research is like this. I'd like to call Lestrade but he is with _him_. And why is he even investigating this? He's in homicides!”

Sherlock lolled his head backwards until it was resting against John's chest and peeked at him from under his fringe.

“Speaking of which, why are you so intent on carrying on as if nothing has changed?”

_No offence meant, but you don't have the best track record of taking care of yourself._

John shrugged, blocking the memory of Mycroft's solemn office from his mind. “I don't see what you mean.”

Sherlock didn't blink or turn away his upside down eyes. “No, I think you do. Haven't you wondered at all? All our theories were wrong. This situation shouldn't have been possible. Him and me, here with you.”

“Shouldn't it?” John asked, already trying to avoid this conversation. Sherlock wasn't meant to do this to him, to ask the difficult questions. That was why they had Mycroft to communally despise.

“Yes. Can't you remember what Li said? That there shouldn't be two versions of the same person running around in one world? That the other one is always dead? You died in Afghanistan, John. You died, and if this – absurdity – hadn't happened, I wouldn't ever have even known.”

John shrugged again. He had thought about it, of course he had, but the idea of Sherlock stuck there alone had been too painful. He'd had enough on his plate already, and so he had buried that thought. He had let it slide. He had let awfully lot slide.

Apparently, there was still room on Sherlock's proverbial plate. Apparently, this was his chosen time to start addressing the consequences.

“Yet here we are. Both of us very much alive, despite the theory. So, the data she used to build up her hypothesis must have been wrong. Don't you wonder at all?”

“I do,” John admitted, but it didn't feel good to say it. In fact, it felt wretched. “I know what you mean, but I couldn't – with all that was, that still is going on, I just couldn't. There's a limit, Sherlock. I've got limits. I thought that maybe we should just get used to this at first, but then these cases started happening, and you were so happy, and he seems fine, and the right time never came. We should have begun with that, and now it's getting more difficult by day.”

“We have to make the time,” Sherlock said, and when had he become so adult about these things?

“There's a banker missing,” John pointed out, but Sherlock shook his head.

“It's waiting game for now,” he answered. “I told you, I haven't got enough data yet. Also, I doubt _he_ just decided to take up clubbing tonight. I must admit that it's annoying when he runs off like this.”

“You're telling me,” John grinned, and he couldn't help the smile escaping. “Okay, up you get then. Come to the sofa with me. Tell me what's on your mind.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sound but didn't move. “I've told you before, John. I'm a chemist, and this is quantum physics. I can't deduce an answer to this one. But there are some things that have struck me.”

“Mrs Hudson,” John responded and hated the falter in his voice. She had been knitting him socks. They'd watched telly together. She had confided in him about Mr Chatterjee. She had been, well, _her_ , and then one day, she was knocked out and her boys were gone. Both of them, gone without any warning or any message.

John preferred not to think about Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock gave a grim nod. “I've been wondering if there's any way to inform her, but you can't exactly send a text. As far as we know, there's nothing to be done. I didn't mean her, John.”

“Then what?” It came out rough and a bit angry.

“Can't you see? Is there nothing that's bothering you?”

“Everything is bothering me!”

The flat fell very silent for a moment. John closed his eyes, opened them again. Sherlock hadn't moved.

“Sorry. I shouldn't have shouted.”

Sherlock's head rose and he looked up at him, waiting.

“It's just, I told you, this is a bit much.” John stammered, trying to find the right words. Sherlock, the unhelpful git, just cocked his head to the right and waited.

“I mean, I _love_ you,” John sighed. “I do. But then there's him, and it's confusing.”

It was like pulling teeth. Sherlock studied the files, eye skipping over the pages like he didn't even hear John trying to explain himself. John gripped the back of his chair. His fingers were white. He forced the words out, not knowing if they helped any, not knowing if they in fact made things worse.

“It was confusing before, too. Out there, I mean. But in a different way. You were separate. I worked very hard to keep you that way. And now it's – it doesn't work any more. We kiss, and that's _perfect_ , that's what I want, but then I see him, and he looks. Disgusted. He looks disgusted. Or – or – I don't know. Uncomfortable. And I. And I. Still. I love him still. I'm sorry. I shouldn't. It's not fair to you.”

Sherlock snorted. Actually snorted, the terrible man, despite John's confession, and finally, _finally_ rose up and turned and crowded him against the kitchen counter in one fluid movement.

“You're an idiot,” he told John with conviction, and that was good and familiar and forced a desperate chuckle out of him. Sherlock frowned.

“Shut up now. You think Sherlock Holmes is some unmovable marble statue, don't you? Haven't you been looking at him at all? I even told you. He was worried for you, very worried. More than worried.”

“I,” said John, but Sherlock talked right over him.

“Did you know that he escaped from the ambulance to get back to that warehouse, just to look for you? He had been shot, and he prioritised your safety. And he kept going back, even after it proved to be useless. He couldn't keep himself away. Does that remind you of anyone?”

_Sherlock in the bathroom after his fiasco of a meeting with Mary, still bleeding but happy to offer John a 'present', a gun he had stupidly requested._

_John himself, desperately trying to find a way to get back home when the shock had been new and huge and drowning him._

“But,” John intelligently pointed out, but Sherlock wasn't done talking yet.

“You say he's disgusted. You say he doesn't feel things like that. You told me he's not like me. Why are you so adamant you know his mind that well?”

“Because -”

“You may talk,” Sherlock told him. “But think what you're about to say because I'm in a prime position to kick you on the balls if you insist being a moron.”

“Because he said so,” John answered slowly, and then gaining steam as the words poured out. “The very first night, he told me he only cares about being a detective. And later, time and a time again, he demonstrated the victims don't matter to him. Caring about them won't help them, he said. It's all about the cases for him. People have died and he shrugged it off. He despises emotions. Says they are a disadvantage, or grate on his nerves or something. And that's not even touching the sociopath stuff he's _ouch_! Fuck, Sherlock!”

“I did warn you.”

“I was about to say he's flaunting that phrase around like it's keys to salvation,” John said, glaring at his lover. “But I saw him with Mrs Hudson when she had been hurt by the American. I don't believe a word of it. Still doesn't change the fact he's not impressed with us. He's simply not interested in – anything – I think, and seeing himself make out with me must be very disturbing.”

“Well I'm him,” Sherlock declared. “And I'm telling you that you're wrong about that.”

John's brain short-circuited. He stared at Sherlock. Tags. The tags were there, as tight and provocative as ever. But. “Wait. Wait wait wait. When you said you're him. Did you mean that. Literally?”

_Oh God oh God oh please no. Yes? No! No._

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Sherlock Holmes swore and kissed him.

It was nothing like their earlier kisses. Sherlock was a tornado, ripping into him and twisting him apart, and John went with it like a leaf in a storm, allowing Sherlock to lean him over the counter. He was hard before his elbows hit the table.

“Who's kissing you, John?” Sherlock asked, biting at his lips, his fingers clawing into John's waist. “Who's touching you? You can't be this blind!”

But he was. He was blind and drowning in Sherlock, any Sherlock, this one right here. He tried to answer, but as soon as his mouth opened Sherlock attacked it. John groaned and raised his hands, grasping the strong arms and then back, not knowing if he should push him away or cede all control to him. Judging by the way he kept tugging him closer, he doubted pushing Sherlock away ever was a real option.

His mouth was viciously plundered but his fingers crept up, encountering shoulders and then throat, meeting something hard. Thinking was becoming difficult with Sherlock's tongue deep in his mouth, but this seemed important.

The tags. Around neck. Property of John Watson. Sounding distressed. Because of him? Because of him. His stupidity.

Wouldn't do.

His fingers closed around those tags, squeezing gently.

Don't obstruct the air flow. Careful with that trachea. Let him feel it. Damn it Sherlock, be you and feel it.

Sherlock stopped for a half a second to moan into his throat and John used that time to twist away from his hold and slam him against the counter, pushing against his back and only then sighing in relief. Sherlock let out an angry sound, almost a growl, trying to to break free, but John kept him in place, arms trapped on his sides. Property of John Watson, his arse. When would he stop being an idiot?

“Let me go,” Sherlock snarled, struggling and kicking in vain.

“I wouldn't do that,” John told him. “I'm stronger than you. He found out the hard way. Those bruises lasted for some weeks.”

Sherlock didn't stop struggling, but when he spoke his voice was petulant. “Who's he?”

“Who do you think?” John asked and very deliberately pressed his erection against Sherlock's arse. It felt very good, so he did it again.

“Stop humping me.”

“Oh, I rather think you owe me one. Here by this counter, remember? Head down, Sherlock.”

The following rebellious muttering was spoiled by the obvious way Sherlock's hips rose to meet his thrusts. Still he tried to glare at John over his shoulder.

“I said head down,” John commanded, voice almost as hard as his cock, and something snapped in Sherlock's eyes. His forehead met the counter with an audible thud.

“And keep that there,” John told him. “Is that clear?”

Sherlock whispered something nasty against the table.

“I asked you if that's clear,” John repeated, channelling his best army voice and pressing his hips over his lover's unresisting backside, and Sherlock melted against the table.

“Yes, John,” he whispered to the counter. It was time for another sigh of relief. John smiled, making sure to let it sound in his voice.

“Good. You're doing fine. Now that forehead stays there until I tell you otherwise, all right? How long since we've fucked, Sherlock?”

As he asked it he let his hands slide into Sherlock's zip, opening it and pushing his trousers and pants down in one unapologetic movement. Property of John Watson. He _owned_ this man. He could do this, no matter how crazy it felt, how improper.

Sherlock moaned a number, but John was too intent on the sight before him to pay attention. Didn't matter, it was certainly a right one. He let out another pleased sound, sliding his palm over the curve of that pert, quivering arse.

“Very good. Now kick them off and remember that forehead. I would be very gross if you forgot about it.”

It took Sherlock only a couple of seconds to present his pantless lower half to John, who couldn't resist a tactile expedition of his lovely buttocks. That led to massaging them, which in turn offered an interesting view to what waited behind.

“Are you rubbing yourself on the table, you indecent thing?”

Sherlock let out a confirming moan, but despite his glee John pinched his inner thigh, schooling his voice to severity.

“Well, stop it. This isn't about you. I told you, you owe me one. Tiptoes, Sherlock. And no squirming.”

Being able to position Sherlock exactly to his liking was a heady thing, and so arousing that getting his own trousers down proved problematic. He quickly decided knee level was low enough, and judging by the sound Sherlock made when John first pressed his cock between his waiting arse cheeks, he was in absolute agreement.

“Oh Jesus, Sherlock, just like that,” John murmured, moving slowly up and down his crack. Sherlock twitched every time John passed his hole, but he didn't pause or linger there. Steady movement, Watson. Keep him guessing. “Stay still, you're perfect just like this.”

He lost himself in the repetitious rocking and the little sounds Sherlock made against the counter, his mouth opening and closing with each upwards thrust, his fingers whitening around the table's edge. John was leaking enough to make the glide easy, and soon he was rutting in abandon between his lover's open cheeks.

“Feels so good,” John sighed. “I bet you'd love it if I touched you, wouldn't you? This must be maddening for you, staying like that for my pleasure but getting none yourself. Don't you just need my hand over your poor cock?”

“Yes, please,” Sherlock answered, choking a little at the words. His voice was breathless, his legs shivering. Staying on tiptoe must have been draining. Lovely Sherlock, his head stayed on the table as if it had been glued there.

“Say it,” John continued, a little drunk by his power over him. “I want to hear you say the words.”

“Please touch me, John,” Sherlock said, no, slurred, twitching against him. “I need it. Please.”

“I won't,” John told him and knew he had made the right decision when Sherlock bit back a sob and pressed harder against him, trying to get more friction where he needed it.

“No squirming!”

Sherlock let out another moan and rubbed his arse to John's cock, his ribs rising and falling like a rabbit's. Stepping away from him felt terrible but somehow John managed. His cock was aching and he took himself in hand, letting Sherlock hear the fleshy sounds as he stroked himself. Control. Sherlock needed control from him, had told him so repetitiously. John would deliver, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Please!” Sherlock sounded like he was in actual pain, trying to scoot back to rejoin them, but John sidestepped his attempts and crouched down to inspect him.

“Shh,” he muttered absently. Sherlock was panting, his forehead on the counter and his eyes pressed tightly closed, his profusely leaking cock hanging heavy between his legs. John caught a droplet in his finger before it fell and rubbed it over Sherlock's inner thigh. He spread his legs at once, biting back another plead. Not jumping him on the spot was the hardest thing John could remember ever doing.

“I gave you a direct order,” he lamented, “and you disobeyed. Should we stop? Or shall we try again? Can you behave yourself?”

It was mindless talk, he knew it. Sherlock was generally not interested in behaving himself. But here and now, with him hanging to every word John said, it made perfect sense, and as such it didn't surprise John at all to see him nodding his head desperately, careful to keep it against the table.

“Good,” John sighed, his relief clear in his voice. He didn't know if he could have stopped this now. He gave Sherlock's cock one swift, business-like stroke that almost succeeded in sending the poor man into cardiac arrest before resuming his position behind him.

“Steady now,” he reminded them both before plunging his cock deep between Sherlock's thighs, his slippery thumb going straight for his hole, wiggling easily in and keeping him in place. A low keen rose from Sherlock and sent John's hormones into overdrive. _Property of John Watson. Oh dear God give me strength, this man is going to kill me, he will he will._

He set up a punishing pace that had Sherlock whining and drooling over the counter and his own balls rising to meet the underside of his cock. With each thrust he pressed over Sherlock's balls and towards his leaking erection, his forefinger replacing the thumb inside Sherlock to wiggle deeper in search for that one spot he hoped to find before coming all over Sherlock's upturned waiting arse like a bloody teenager.

He knew he had found it a moment before Sherlock did, one of the perks of being a doctor.

“You're so good for me,” he sighed, pressing straight at it, and all the muscles in Sherlock's body convulsed as he sobbed in anguish, clutching at the table with all his might. “John!”

“Yeah?”

Finding oxygen for words was difficult. Everything was difficult except pushing between Sherlock's thighs, again and again and again. That was mandatory.

“Please, John.”

It was impossible to touch him from this position. He pushed his finger deeper, massaged that spot which made Sherlock buck against him in desperation. He felt his orgasm starting, felt Sherlock getting tighter around his finger.

How far could he take this? How far could Sherlock?

Only one way to find out.

“Come for me,” he snapped, trying to make it an order, and Sherlock opened his mouth to a silent scream, and then he was pulsing and hot around John's finger, and John realised that he had complied, that he was climaxing, spurting against the table and onto the floor, his stomach concave and convulsing, his breaths harsh and loud.

The realisation almost made him fall on his arse. He had made Sherlock come, simply by telling him to.

No man should have such power. 

“Fucking God,” John swore and thrust once, twice, three times and then he was coming too, draping himself across Sherlock's sweaty back and holding on for dear life. 

When he came back to himself the reality hit once again. They were in the kitchen, in the fucking kitchen. Anyone could have walked in. _Sherlock_ could have walked in, causing them all to die of mortification. John groaned into the broad back of his apparently boneless lover, trying and failing to suppress his hysterical need to break into giggles.

“Jesus, Sherlock, let's never do that again.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, sounding dazed. “It was brilliant.” 

“There's such a thing as privacy,” John tried explaining, extracting himself from his sticky lover. He couldn't help glancing guiltily towards the living room. It remained empty, even the skull was facing to the other direction.

“Overrated,” Sherlock muttered, still splayed over the counter. “John. Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Hmm? Oh! You can move, Sherlock. Of course you can move. Come on. Let's go to the shower.”

–

That night John went to bed with a very docile Sherlock Holmes. There was still only one version of the man around, and so he didn't feel guilty about taking the downstairs bedroom with his lover. He lay curled up in the spacious bed, his arm tossed over a gently moving chest, his nose snuggling into a long, bent neck. He listened to Sherlock's steady breathing and let it lull him into a relaxed slumber.

“Admit it, John,” Sherlock whispered a moment before sleep claimed them. “You wouldn't have stopped even if it had been him, not me.”

“Bollocks,” John mumbled back, pressing the word into Sherlock's skin with his lips to make it more real. “'Course I would have.”

Sherlock didn't say anything more, and moments later they were both in a deep sleep that wasn't even interrupted by the soft patter of footsteps in the stairs hours after midnight.

He did stir once, startled momentarily almost-awake by some loud sound outside. He was laying on his other side, still curled tightly around a familiar broad back. Everything was warm and peaceful and achingly right. John snuggled into a better position, placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's skin, muttered an unheard “love you” and fell back to sleep.

In the morning he woke up in the same position cuddling a pillow. Strong arms circled around him and Sherlock's quiet breaths tickled his neck. John wiggled carefully away from his lover's possessive hold and padded out to the kitchen to check if their clubbing menace of a flatmate had made it back at home during the night.

“Morning, John,” Sherlock said from his usual place by the kitchen table where he was studying the case files left there by his double in the evening. “Coffee?”

“Yes please,” John answered automatically, eyes drawn to the spot on the counter where another Sherlock had been writhing under him last night. Had he noticed? Probably yes, but if he had he didn't show it. Thank God for small mercies. Sherlock didn't move an inch, and it took John a moment to realise that the coffee hadn't been an offer. He sighed, found the pot and started washing it. The quiet sounds of domesticity, of Sherlock going through the stacks of papers and the water running, made him feel bold. 

“Had a nice night out? With Greg?”

Good. That hadn't sounded too bitter, he guessed. At least Sherlock didn't seem to think so. He got a hum as an answer. It could have meant anything from 'obviously' to 'it was tedious', but probably meant 'shut up'. Emboldened, John decided to try again.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

This time, there wasn't even a sound as an answer. John gave a weak smile to the pot. No matter what his Sherlock had insisted, this one lived only for the cases.


	12. The Predetermined Case

“You're wrong, of course.”

John turned the page of his newspaper. “Yes, Sherlock. As usual.”

“The whole idea is absurd and should never be actualised.”

“Whatever you say. I'm leaving in an hour. Hey, the forecast says it's not going to rain tomorrow.”

“And Mycroft would be ashamed of himself if he was at all capable of such things.”

“Now that's something I can agree on – morning, love. Slept well?”

His Sherlock scratched his scruffy head and stepped into the kitchen. “Not sure. _Someone_ kept tossing and turning the whole night. My feet are freezing. What are you two arguing about?”

“We aren't arguing, love,” John informed him, frowning. Really, he'd been restless last night? As far as he could tell, he'd slept like a baby. On the other side of the table, Sherlock snorted into the files.

“Can you stop doing that? It's getting ridiculous.”

John raised his eyebrow at him, but Sherlock stared at the table, refusing to meet his eyes. He tried glancing up at his lover, but there was no help coming from that direction either. He shrugged and went with the most likely candidate.

“Look, I know you're not into sports, but I'm still going to read this section so stop protesting. It's not like I'm reading aloud, and you can survive in the same room with rugby results for five minutes.”

If frustration could have taken a mortal form, his name would have been Sherlock Holmes.

“Not the newspaper, John. The endearments. He's got a perfectly adequate name. Save us all the embarrassment and use it. I hope your brain isn't too muddled by all the sex hormones to remember it.”

John blushed bright scarlet, rewinding the last few minutes. He hadn't even realised, those words had slipped out so easily. Last evening had been brilliant, and he'd been in such a good mood this whole morning, and why couldn't he just think? This was just the kind of thing they had discussed before the – the sex, as his friend had bluntly put it, the kind of thing that irritated Sherlock. And here he went flaunting it on his face.

“I hope you at least changed the linens afterwards. It is _my_ bed,” Sherlock muttered at the table, and John saw that his ears were red, too. And oh shit, but he'd be annoyed too, if the situation was reversed. He'd be furious. Sherlock thought they had had sex in his bed, and all he had planned to do about it was to demand coffee. He wouldn't have breached the subject if John hadn't managed to annoy him. Who worked like that? 

John opened his mouth to apologise, or placate, but he was cut off before he had even started.

“Worry not, self,” another Sherlock declared smugly. “There has been no sex in your bedroom. The sanctity of your maiden chamber hasn't been compromised.” His voice was grand and formal and he was looking across the room, as if he was talking to a much larger group of people, not just the two of them. So much for trying to placate him.

“Would you not!” John wanted to melt through the floor out of sheer, shared humiliation. It was bad enough that he knew that Sherlock knew. They didn't need to go into specifics, at least not before breakfast. And what his lover had said confirmed so many things about his friend he really didn't have any business knowing. Maiden chamber, dear heavens.

“Then where,” Sherlock started, unperturbed by this preach into everybody's privacy, and why, why had John ever thought it would be a good idea to become flatmates or, heaven forbid, lovers with him, the other him, but him nonetheless?

He needed more coffee than his current meagre cup for this discussion.

“Hold it,” he pleaded them. “Please hold it until I get out of here. Ten minutes. Please.” And he hid behind the newspaper, desperate for something else to think about. The paper offered him finances, and he scanned the headlines, not really invested in reading them, when -

Oh.

“Where's he going to?”

This could be very interesting. Even better, relevant.

“He's going to see a doctor. There's nothing wrong with him. Mycroft is an idiot.”

“Sherlock.”

“What? He is, you said so yourself!”

“A doctor? Is the back bothering you so much? You could've said something.”

“It's more of a general check-up. Sherlock.”

“He'd be all right if you two stopped – spraining it all the time.”

“Was that discretion? I didn't know you had it in yourself! And your definition of 'all the time' is wildly off base. Shall I explain to you exactly the times when we have _sprained_ his back?”

“Sherlock!”

Two pairs of eyes snapped to him. Two sets of ridiculous cheekbones were shrouded by similar pink haze. Two irritated mouths opened at the same time.

“What now?”

John thrust the article at them. For a moment everyone was blessedly silent.

“Could that be about him? Staunton, I mean?”

“Wild fluctuation in the stock market,” Sherlock read the headline. “The biggest fall of the decade. Analysts baffled.”

“First we have a top banker going missing,” the other one mused. “And then the exchange starts to crumble. There might be something there. Great catch, John.”

“That would explain the lack of ransom,” the first one continued.

“Of course it could be a coincidence,” John offered. “After all, it's not like this one guy could just, I don't know, press a button to bring the shares down.”

“There's something Mycroft always says about coincidences,” Sherlock replied, voice distant.

“And obvious facts,” his double reminded him.

“It's worth investigating anyway,” they concluded in rare unison. “Coming, John?”

“I have this appointment,” John told them, sighing. “Try not to get yourself thrown through any doors this time. Or arrested. I'll text you when I'm done and we'll meet up somewhere.”

–

It was a near thing, but he did suffer through the blood tests, x-rays and, most of all, the berating without snapping. It didn't help that he knew if their places were reversed he would have given Jules the exact same speech. The word 'irresponsible' was used half a dozen times in just as many minutes. His mood got darker by second, until finally Jules, who was generally a nice, easygoing guy, ran out of steam and gave him an exhausted sigh and a stern frown over his glasses.

“You haven't engaged in this sort of self-negligent behaviour in over a year. I don't know what triggered this, but I strongly recommend you to discuss it with your psychiatrist. It seems no lasting damage has been done, but that's more down to good luck than anything else.”

John nodded mutely. There was no way Ella would hear a word of this.

They shook hands and he took his leave, making his best not to spring into a run to get away from there. That had been awful. He had no intention to ever tell anybody the real story of the last few months, but that didn't change the fact that it had left its marks both on his body and mind. Dodging the questions had been exhausting. No wonder Jules thought he was about to lose it. And if he ever saw Ella again, the meeting would be even quieter than the previous ones had been. 

He hadn't even left the building before his phone beeped. He fished it out from his pocket without stopping, hoping for a text from Sherlock, something to help forget the tense unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_Thank you John._

He deleted the message – damn you Mycroft – and called Sherlock instead. Sherlock preferred texting, yes, but John needed to hear his voice now. It took a while for him to answer, enough for John to find himself a cab.

“Yes well hello, Sherrinford Holmes on the phone.”

John closed his eyes in exasperation. “Hello to you too. Where should I come?”

“Oh! It's John! Sherlock, Sherlock, it's _John_! We're at the Yard.”

“Oh shit, I told you not to get arrested!”

The line went quiet and the cabbie gave him a long look. John conjured up a weak smile. We're all stable here, nothing to be worried about.

“Scotland Yard,” he mouthed at her, and the cabbie nodded at him, curt and unimpressed.

“I don't understand,” said Sherlock on the other end of the line after a moment, and somehow he didn't sound like himself even though he was using his own voice. “Why would we be arrested? Greg, why does John think we're arrested? No silly, we're solving crimes! It's exciting!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherrinford knew Lestrade's name. He wasn't at all sure he liked this third brother.

“Don't you think you're overdoing it a bit?”

Sherlock giggled into his ear. Giggled, when he should have snorted, and there was nothing forced in his laughter. It also made him sound years younger and, somehow, more innocent. John fidgeted on his seat, wishing for the cab to move faster.

“Sherlock thinks so too! But Sally just brought us coffee and biscuits, I'll spare some for you. Be quick, John!”

It wasn't before the line went dead that John realised he was travelling from one ants' nest to another. Yesterday Lestrade had been taken aback by the sudden appearance of the second Sherlock. Today he should be over that and John had no doubts the DI would have some questions about his disappearance. And he had no idea how to even start answering those without sounding either deranged or traumatised to silence.

This day was going just swimmingly.

–

Turned out nobody was quite over Sherrinford Holmes. John couldn't stop staring.

Sherlock had adopted a large-eyed, harmless look and was buzzing from one desk to another, pestering people about what they were doing and falling over himself in what John could only term as clumsy, over-enthusiastic politeness. He was a Labrador retriever in human form, and someone had just given him a treat. He didn't as much walk as flop around, and he called everybody by their first name.

Even Anderson.

John hadn't even considered the possibility that Anderson might have a first name.

“I wouldn't have taken him with us but Lestrade insisted.”

Sherlock materialised next to him, looking at his 'brother' with unmasked annoyance. John's eyes went automatically to his throat. No tags. That meant -

“Excuse me, but it wasn't just me.”

Lestrade, on his other side, his camera phone ready and poised.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. “No. It wasn't. Anderson was very keen in particular.”

“Anderson?” John asked, bewildered. Sherrinford was talking to one of the techs, his hands gesturing a whole another conversation. John couldn't rip his eyes off him.

“Says they bonded last night.”

“Sherrinford _bonded_ with Anderson?”

“Over our childhood,” Sherlock confirmed sourly, and Lestrade thumped John's shoulder, the bad one. John almost missed the look of pure hostility Sherlock threw his way. No tags. His ears were ringing.

“It was brilliant,” Lestrade declared, smiling with all his teeth. “The tales he told us, you should have been there! I wouldn't believe they were twins if the evidence wasn't right here under my nose!”

“I see,” said John, but really he didn't. Because Sherrinford had just waltzed to Sally's desk, and he was holding her by shoulders and talking to her in a very animated way, and Sally was laughing, she was actually genuinely _happy_ , and then she pointed at something across the room and Sherlock, no, Sherrinford, he twirled her around in her chair and dropped an honest-to-god kiss to her curls and headed towards the place she had shown him.

And he didn't wear the tags, either.

He didn't realised he had taken a step back before he collided with Sherlock. Which Sherlock? He should know, he _had_ to know, why didn't he know?

“John, you fine? You look a little pale.”

“I'm all right, just haven't yet eaten anything today,” he answered, and it even was technically correct due to his laboratory visit in the morning. But Sherrinford was now talking to some guy in a pink shirt John had never seen in his life, and he was laughing awkwardly and John half expected Sherlock to twirl and kiss him, too. He wondered where the floor had gone to because it sure felt like he was floating.

Even without product or flashes of underwear, Sherrinford Holmes was the most stereotypically gay imaginary person John had ever met.

And neither of them wore the tags. He didn't understand.

John swallowed. “The case,” he said. “We're here for the kidnapping, yes? Have you got any new information about that?”

Sherlock brightened up at once. “Yes. We checked them, and all those businesses in trouble today, they are all connected to Mark Staunton. He's a shareholder in some, advisor for others. So there's definitely something in that.”

“I've been talking to them,” Lestrade cut in, “and they have nothing but good things to say about Mr Staunton. Most of them have known him for years, there's never been any trouble. He doesn't have as much as a parking ticket on his record.”

“Why are you even in this?” John asked, remembering Sherlock's earlier outburst. “This isn't your division.”

Lestrade gave him a sheepish shrug. “I know Monica, his wife. She called me, begged me for help. I can't direct our resources into this, but I promised her I'll look into it.”

“So you came to us,” Sherlock intoned, and something in his voice had John sighing in relief. This had to be the original Sherlock, sounding bored and nonchalant when he actually was brimming with interest. John had heard it a hundred times before. It had to be so, surely?

But that meant his Sherlock was currently out there flirting with a room full of Scotland Yard's finest. And Anderson.

“So I came to you,” Lestrade admitted without a shred of guilt. “And we're between cases right now. Doesn't mean I don't have work to do – there's a mountain of paperwork on my desk, but at least I'm not crawling in some poor murdered sod's wardrobe, looking for arachnids and counting their feet.”

John nodded. Lestrade was right, that had been a particularly nasty case. But what the hell was _his Sherlock_ -

“But what about you, John?” Lestrade asked, crashing him back to earth, and this was the moment John had been dreading. “How are you doing, after all that -”

“Oh that sounded awful, tell me more!”

He breathed out. Thank God for the enthusiasm of Sherrinford Holmes, for his Sherlock. He had been listening after all. He knew how John felt about this topic and was ready to step into rescue. He offered Sherrinford a blinding smile.

Sherlock groaned. “Later, Sherrinford. We've got work to do. And that wasn't a very good case anyway.”

“You told me it was one of the best,” Lestrade protested, but Sherlock gave him a horrible grimace. 

“We don't want to excite my dear brother.”

“You mean there's a Holmes with a normal reaction to mutilated bodies?”

Sherlock gave a dramatic huff. “I was actually thinking about the arachnids.”

Sherrinford had two strong hands wrapped around John's arm and he was tugging in determination. John froze. What should he do, shrug off his hands? Ignore them? What would people think?

“John,” Sherrinford demanded, and he was standing very close now. But Sherlock always stood close to him. Lestrade looked at them, smiling. Did he realise he was being lied to? Could he figure out what they had been doing, less than twelve hours ago?

Desperate for distraction, John launched into an explanation.

“The guy was superstitious. He believed that by hacking off his victim's legs along with those of a bunch of exotic spiders he could become a world-class runner without training. He provoked the spiders into biting him afterwards. Something to do with dancing for days and days. He'd been at it for some time. We were trying to determine how many victims there were by looking for the spiders.”

“Tarantulas,” Lestrade corrected him, shivering. “Horrid things.”

“Brilliant!” Sherrinford beamed at them all, and John's brain faltered at seeing such an alien expression on his familiar face. Lestrade had been right, they were nothing alike. Why then couldn't he be sure he had figured them out? Next to him, another Sherlock waved his hands, his face contorted with much more often seen frustration.

“I don't know if anyone here cares or remembers, but we've got a banker and a stock market to save. Lestrade, have you arranged everything with Mrs Staunton or have you been too busy taking photos of my brother?”

Lestrade flashed him a wicked grin.

“Yes, Monica will meet us at noon.”

“Where are we going?” John asked. Sherrinford was still holding to his arm and he was debating whether or not he should hold back. He felt very warm.

“The team officially on the case went through Mr Staunton's office and is investigating his work laptop. Monica told me Mark had another one at home. She doesn't know the password but she said he reads his emails at night and something in them had been bothering him. Who knows, maybe he has saved some personal files to that one instead of the work computer.”

“Why didn't the investigating team take that computer as well?” Sherrinford asked, releasing John and immediately latching himself on to Greg like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. Lestrade shrugged easily, but John's mind boggled. What was this? Why was Greg all right with it?

“Monica didn't remember it then. She called me later and asked me to take a look at it. Said she couldn't figure out the password.”

“She has a lot of trust in you,” Sherrinford pointed out, giving the DI a speculative look from under his eyelashes.

His eyelashes, that were currently way too close to Lestrade's face. John clenched his fists. It was fine, it was fine, it better be just fine.

“It's not what you think, Sherry,” Lestrade answered, and John nearly lost it. Here they were, Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, practically wrapping himself around the DI, and Greg calling him -

“Sherry,” John repeated dully, not realising he had said it aloud. Greg grinned again.

“You really should have been there last night, John. But about me and Monica. We went to school together. She's desperate, and she knows I'm a cop. There's nothing more to it.”

“Wait,” John said, but his attention was still in nicknames and entwined limbs and whatever the hell had happened last night. “If his laptop is all we're interested in, why not bring it here?”

“You weren't listening, John,” Sherlock admonished him, and dear lord if he only knew how right he was. “She doesn't have the password. You know my methods. I need to see the room where he uses the laptop. Also, having a look at the house can hardly hurt the investigation.”

_But it can hurt someone else if he doesn't tone this down this very second._

“Yeah,” John said aloud, trying and failing to summon up any interest in the banker's fate. Let the stock market fall. Just explain to him what was going on.

“Let's go then!” Sherrinford exclaimed. “I haven't driven in a police car before.”

“You – you want to drive with Lestrade?” John asked, his spirits getting even lower, but Sherlock just scowled back at him.

“The things I do for family.” 

Which was how John Watson ended up on a cop car's back seat with two versions of Sherlock Holmes, one of whom couldn't control where his hands went, and a totally befuddled mind.

–

The woman opening the door took one look at them and dropped her cat in distress. The ginger feline skulked off while Mrs Staunton grabbed the door frame.

“Greg, who are these people?”

“This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, our consultant, and Dr John Watson, and Mr Sherrinford Holmes,” Lestrade told her. “What's wrong, Monica?”

“Mark,” said Monica. “He – you have to see it. Do any of you know him?”

They all shook their heads, which only served to make Mrs Staunton even more agitated. She ushered them all inside to a spacious living room and disappeared for a moment, only to rush back in with an already opened laptop.

“He changed it just before,” she said, turning the screen towards them.

The lock screen background was a slightly blurry photo featuring three persons and a painting. John blinked.

“That's us, with Mr Molesey.”

“Reichenbach Falls,” Sherlock breathed. “He wanted us to see this. He wanted us on the case.”


	13. No Tags, No Grabs

Sherlock snatched the laptop from Mrs Staunton's unresisting hands, his eyes gleaming at the promise of this new mystery. She, however, burst into overwrought tears, hiccuping and apologising in turns. Sherrinford fluttered around her, hesitatingly touching her shoulder every time he passed, miles out of his depth. John drowned a guilty smile. No matter how masterful an actor Sherlock was, even he couldn't fake understanding how to soothe people. But then he cast a pleading look towards Lestrade and him, and John took an alarmed step back. No, don't throw him in there! 

Sherlock's eyes flashed in amusement, but soon his expression shifted into a pleading one.

“Greg! Greg, do something!”

Thank God. John tried not to let out an audible breath.

Lestrade helped Mrs Staunton to one of the white leather sofas in the huge living room and talked to her quietly. After a moment she nodded, brushing her tears away with her sleeve.

“I'm sorry. I just was shocked. I had been wondering about that photo, but I never thought it could mean something. Thank heavens I sent Jacob to his grandparents for the week. A hysterical mum is the last thing he needs.”

“The password,” Lestrade reminded her, his expression brimming with sympathy, and Mrs Staunton gave him a weak smile.

“Yes, of course. He's strict about security, Mark is. Always uses those random password generators and changes everything at least once a month. He tells them to me though. We have notebooks hidden in the kitchen full of old passwords. You see, I use that laptop for paying bills and such things, using secure connections. But now he has changed the password without telling me or writing it down, he didn't have the time to, none of the earlier ones work and I'm so worried.”

“Did he change the password at the same time as that lock screen photo?” Sherlock asked, tapping impatiently at the keyboard with his long fingers. He was eager to figure the mystery out before his double did, John supposed. A bit of 'brotherly' rivalry to spice up the day. 

Mrs Staunton looked distressed. “I don't know. I haven't been on the laptop for over a week. It used to have a photo of me and Jacob, out in the garden.”

“Does he change the photo often, then?” Sherrinford put in, still fluttering around the room, taking in everything there and pretending he didn't.

“No. He used the old one for years. I don't understand why he'd change that. I mean, the new one isn't even any good.” At that she glanced up, realising to whom she was speaking to. “I'm sorry. I only meant it's blurry.”

Sherlock waved her worry away. “He didn't change it by accident. That's no professional photo, he's taken it himself with a camera phone and in a hurry, too. That means he was there in the press conference. He saw us, and he took the photo. The question is, why?”

“He knew he might need our help,” John suggested. “Maybe he planned to come and visit us?”

“No,” Sherrinford said at once, and John hated how easily Sherlock had slipped into the role of the more anxious twin even in _his_ mind. He if anyone should know better. But Sherrinford gave him a large-eyed glance, and when he spoke his voice trembled just a bit, as if he was unsure about the validity of his statement in the presence of his celebrity brother. 

“If he wanted to visit us, there would have been no use for a photo, right? He would have talked to us right there in the auction house. No, he must have known he was in trouble, and probably at least suspected he was being watched. The photo is a clue and a call for help both. He wanted us on the case. But he hid it here, at home. That means he doesn't trust the office to be safe. There's got to something important inside the computer.”

“Very good,” John said without even meaning to, and Sherrinford blushed a little, took half a step towards him.

Mrs Staunton looked from one of the 'twins' to the other. “I'm sorry, but which one of you is the consultant?”

“That's me,” Sherlock said, eyeballing his double. “Please ignore my brother, although this time he's right. Although obviously the photo is also a key to figure out the changed password.”

Lestrade groaned. “Isn't it enough for the criminals to make our work harder for us? Why do the victims need to complicate it as well?”

“He's trying to protect his wife,” Sherrinford suggested. “If she doesn't know the password, she can't be forced to tell it to anyone else either.”

Mrs Staunton paled. “Is someone after the laptop? I have to call Jacob and make sure he's all right!”

“We have to at least presume so. There's no other sensible reason to leave such a clear mark on it. The laptop is important,” Sherlock nodded.

“But I still don't understand why he didn't just contact us,” John protested. “By phone if he didn't dare to talk face to face. Why could he be so sure we'd ever see this? He has taken a terrible risk here and endangered his family in the process if you're right.”

Sherlock frowned. “That's true. There must be something more to it. But let's unlock it first.”

“But you still don't know the password,” Mrs Staunton pointed out, getting up. “Do you mind if I make a call? I need to talk to my son.”

Lestrade waved her away while Sherlock inspected the photo. “Now, what would he concentrate on? The painting?”

“There are only prints on the walls even though he could afford the originals,” Sherrinford pointed out. “I don't think he's much into art.”

“So not the painting,” Sherlock accepted. “It must be us.”

“Try Sherlock Holmes,” John suggested.

“Too long,” Sherlock answered, a frown on his face. His fingers didn't stop typing though.

“Holmes,” Sherrinford said, his voice intent.

“Already did,” Sherlock huffed. “And I'm in. He really must have wanted us to see something to use such an elementary password. Let me take a look now.”

“Give me room,” Sherrinford demanded, pushing John to the side and peeking over Sherlock's shoulder. They quickly descended into the incomprehensible lingo John had heard them using earlier in 221B, made up of muttered half-words, quick gestures and weird abbreviations. There was a minor struggle for the control of the keyboard, which Sherlock won by hugging the whole machine to his chest. John gave up trying to help at that point and began to inspect the room instead.

Lestrade was crouching in front of a huge, shiny white bookcase stacked full of books with interesting backs and antiquated information, glancing at the closed kitchen door hiding the unhappy Mrs Staunton every few seconds. His face was severe, but he gave John a little smile when he approached.

“Our school books,” he said, pointing at dog-eared paperbacks behind the more presentable first row of old atlases. “I can't believe she's kept them.”

“Check for dust,” Sherrinford told them, and for a second he was without a question Sherlock. John blinked. Of course the bloody man was Sherlock, who else would he be? This acting game was really starting to get on his nerves.

“Dust?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock has a thing for dust,” John explained. Lestrade frowned.

“But that's Sherry, right?”

Right.

Not.

John had the sudden urge to stomp on himself until only a little puddle would remain, and then dribble back home and never re-emerge. No one should be expected to deal with something like this, with Sherlock who wasn't Sherlock yet was and his doppelgänger who also somehow was Sherlock, damn him. And neither of them in their almighty sherlockness had seen fit to inform their poor long-suffering flatmate who was who for the day and now his brain was in knots and Lestrade was giving him this really weird stare, and in another room there was a woman whose husband had gone missing and John couldn't. Concentrate. On anything.

What had Greg said again? Oh yeah. That.

“My mistake, must run in the family, eh?” John tried, and when Lestrade still looked dubious he attacked the bookcase hoping to distract them both. There was dust everywhere. Never before had postponed cleaning made him so excited. He went through the whole thing, peeking behind books and uncovering more books, spider webs and years ago stashed legos. There was no trace of surveillance equipment anywhere to be found.

“Nobody has touched these in months,” he exclaimed, jumped up and hurried to the other bookcases in the room. They were just as dusty as the first one had been, bless them. “I don't think the room has been bugged, at least like this. Are there any ventilation grilles around?”

Too late he realised he was coming across a bit manic, a huge Cheshire grin plastered on his dust-speckled face. Wordlessly, Lestrade pointed at the corridor and John escaped there avoiding the baffled gazes of everybody in the room. He needed some air. Lots and lots of sweet, Sherrinford-free air. What the everloving fuck were those two playing at? Was this some twisted game of who can send John Watson fastest round the bend? Because he had a winner mind, yes he did, and some chosen words for him as well.

The one who was his, who wore his tags until he didn't, the one who dandied out there masquerading as Sherrinford fucking Holmes because yes, John had made up his mind and was certain he'd got it right this time. That one would be crowned the king supreme of the game unless John decked him before that could happen.

He could still hear their voices from the corridor, the annoying upwards lift Sherrinford inserted into the end of every sentence that left his illegally kissable mouth. John couldn't stay here, listening to that voice. Surveillance be damned. He continued all the way outside without stopping on his tracks. It was that or breaking one of the invaluable busts and vases scattered on pedestals across the room like it was a museum. Who lived like that, in constant worry of their wandering elbows and stormy minds? Or were these people like marble statues, like Sherlock in one of his more vacant days, forever slumbering in sweet, slow peacefulness?

The garden was in full bloom. John paced between the petunias and the hydrangeas, telling himself he was looking for alternate routes into the house but really just trying not to trod on anything too priceless. There was a swimming pool, one paved with blue and white mosaic tiles and mercifully lacking any floating bodies of missing bankers. He walked around it and continued following the paved path across the garden. The back of the house was transformed into a beautiful, well-used orangery. John stopped and fisted his hands and breathed until his ears stopped ringing, until he could hear the flowing water and the buzzing insects.

Little by little, the pressure across his chest eased, and when John at last suspected he could see his Sherlock again without immediately proceeding to strangle him, or yell at him, or maybe kiss him senseless in front of absolutely everybody and their aunt, he let out a final, tight puff of air. What the hell had that been? 

Not just mindless jealousy, he realised with faint foreboding. Jealousy he could deal with, recognise and lock away as one of his uglier traits, only stirred by someone – Irene, Victor, apparently even Greg, getting too close to Sherlock without due warning. But this wasn't it. This felt deeper, more hurtful, like a stab of betrayal.

At the heart of it was the lack of that make-shift collar. He couldn't get over it, that Sherlock would just take it away, or even tell John he was about to do it. That translated to Sherlock single-handedly terminating the building blocks of their relationship. The realisation made him groan aloud. Because now he had went and actually called it a relationship. It wasn't like they were married and Sherlock had decided to dissolve his ring for some stupid science experiment, for gods' sakes!

Except Sherlock had explicitly compared the collar to a wedding ring earlier, when this had still been a simple matter of skipping universes. John pinched the bridge of his nose, and when that didn't help he groaned again, with even more feeling this time.

“John!”

Great. Apparently, they were finished here. How wonderful of them to time it so that when he had finally realised Sherlock had just dumped him it was time to merrily go.

“John!”

Well, he couldn't very well stay here on the Stauntons' back yard, could he now?

“Coming!” He started towards the front door, forcing his face into a more pleasing expression. A brief glance at his reflection by the pool told him he wasn't doing a very good job at it.

–

Another crowded ride back to NSY, how splendid. John spent the journey awkwardly bumping shoulders with both Sherlocks, and why did they insist he be the one to sit in the middle anyway? Fortunately no one seemed to expect conversation from him. Lestrade was busy on the phone, and Sherlocks stared out of their respective windows, no doubt deep in case-related thoughts, leaving him free to entertain his own dark conclusions.

He couldn't make sense of it in any other way. Sherlock thought the tags equalled a wedding ring. Sherlock took them off without even informing John he was about to do it. In other words, Sherlock had declared himself a free man, and John couldn't really fault him at that.

The thing was, Sherlock had spent his whole life under someone's thumb, either figuratively or literally. Was it any wonder then, that when he finally had a chance to taste liberty, he would find it so tempting? The collaring had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, born out of need to get him back on his feet and escape Moriarty in one piece. And if that wasn't enough, Sherlock had been drugged up to his eyeballs when they had done it. Coming to regret what was basically a lightning bolt marriage was the most natural thing in the world. John understood. He could live with it. It wasn't like Sherlock had decided he never wanted to see John again.

He just wished Sherlock would have at least told him beforehand that he was planning to take the tags off. Having had time to adjust would have been nice. But Sherlock wasn't like that, he knew. Sherlock didn't waste time contemplating the feelings of others. It probably hadn't even dawned to him John might be upset about it.

For the first time today, something resembling a tired but genuine smile lingered on his face. That was Sherlock for you, all right. But it was fine. He had figured it out and it would all be fine. If Sherlock wanted to move out, try out his wings, John wouldn't try stopping him. He had more than earned that chance. The world better ready itself, it wouldn't know what had hit it. 

Shyly, he took Sherrinford's beautiful hand and squeezed it between his own, trying to communicate that he understood now, that it was all right. The man noticeably stopped breathing for a second before pressing back, a little too hard, back ramrod straight, eyes carefully darting to his face. So he had been wondering what John would think after all. He let the touch linger a moment longer before letting go, managing not to sigh out loud. Thank God he didn't have any kids, this was difficult enough.

But Sherlock deserved it, and was worth any and all gifts John could give him. There. That was sorted. Good.

Dammit, he was not about to start crying on Greg's car's backseat. He was not. He'd never hear the end of that. He needed a distraction.

“Is he fine then?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, never once removing his distant gaze from the car's darkened window.

“The son. Jacob Staunton.” 

“Yes, fine. Just fine. Shh, John. Let me think.”

Sherrinford's fingers crept back to his palm, unsure of their welcome. He closed his hand around them, a weird sweet pain raising up from nowhere. He would miss this. No matter how much he told himself otherwise, he would miss Sherlock like a limb, like a heart.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

–

The visit to Scotland Yard was short and mostly consisted of Sherlock returning the rightful balance to the world by insulting each and every soul in the room and getting into a nasty fight with Anderson. Greg followed his antics for a moment before crossing his arms and asking the question on everybody's mind.

“So can you give us an address or not?”

“He can't,” Sherrinford muttered to John's ear, his voice warm and low, just like his hand on John's arm. “And that's pissing him royally off. Look at the poor man, he's quivering with it.”

“Well, do _you_ know where we should go looking for him?”

“There were some interesting files that for sure merit a closer inspection. But if you're asking if we found a map with an arrow painted on it, then the answer is no.”

“So the laptop is coming home with us.”

“I wouldn't part from it now. A man's life might depend on it.”

John smiled. “And your amusement.”

Sherlock, his Sherlock, he could recognise that tender turn of lips anywhere, brushed against his shoulder. “Don't be dense, John. I would never put my amusement over someone else's life. I've learned that much at the very least.”

John beamed at him. “You've learned a lot more, I dare say.”

He couldn't believe he had decided to give this up. Neither did Sherlock, or that was what it looked like anyway with him blushing at John's compliment. But no tags, no grabs. He schooled his expression into a less blatantly adoring one. At least that was what he tried to do. Apparently, it didn't work out so well.

“Oy lovebirds, your bus is leaving!”

John realised he was still leaning on Sherlock and, even worse, staring dreamily up at him through his eyelashes. In broad daylight, surrounded by Greg and his crew. Someone snapped a photo, snickering about Sherry and the doc. Oh, shit.

He really was not getting the hang of this letting go business. And here came Sherlock, the laptop cradled under his arm, his nose scrunched up in that particular way that told of building irritation and an oncoming sulk. He snapped his fingers at them, not bothering to slow down or turn his head. “We are going. Now, John.”

Sherrinford threw theatrical kisses to the whole room. John tried not to see, but at least Sally, the guy in pink shirt from earlier and, dear God, Detective Inspector Dimmock, returned the favour. The last thing he heard from them before a heavy security door closed behind his back was a chorus of whistles and a pearly string of laughter.

Sherlock left his side, hurrying after his double. John's arm felt cold and lonely. Better get used to it. The dream was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	14. Paradigm, Shifted

Sherlock collapsed into the waiting cab with hardly a glance towards the driver. He gathered his long limbs closer in a vague yet failed attempt at consideration for the shared space, resembling nothing as much as a discarded scarecrow with unusually posh clothing. He didn't release the laptop, however, preferring to hug it to his chest like a lost child would a teddy bear. The oncoming sulk written all over his features melted away into pure exhaustion, forcing his neck bowed and his eyes closed. 

“Baker Street,” his double announced, herding John inside before climbing in after him and closing the door. He, too, looked drooping and drained. There were harsh lines over his face even in the soft light of the car, and his whole frame was drawn tight and on display without the safe cover of the coat. Between them, John sat with his hands primly on his knees, his eyes trained forward and his anger reloading. It wasn't aimed at anyone in particular. They would explain themselves. All of them. Now. He'd make sure of it.

Of course, the gits were a step ahead of him. This time it was his Sherlock, the last one to enter, the irredeemably-gay-as-Sherrinford-Holmes-one, who started it.

“Fine,” he said as the car slid into the traffic, and fatigue made his voice sound almost drunk. “You've got questions.”

“Oh please, do we have to do this right now?” The other one complained, restless fingers sliding over the closed lid of the laptop. “That was horrible. I could use some tea.”

John couldn't help a harsh almost-laughter escaping. So this would be how they started. “Horrible! _You_ thought it was horrible? You had it the easiest of us, prancing around, insulting people left and right! Isn't that what you have always enjoyed doing?”

“I only insulted them when they deserved it,” Sherlock protested. “Anderson wanted to steal the computer. Doesn't he have enough work of his own to fail at? Did you see the report he was writing? I'd need a dozen red pens just to correct the errors on the first page! And yes, it was horrible. Although I do admit that you gave quite a show, self. That articulation! Mummy would have slapped you if she'd heard.”

“Poor you,” John snapped at him. “Poor both of you. Having all the time of the world, scheming together, never once informing me about your little trick. And damn stupid trick it was, too.”

Sherlock opened half an eyelid and peeked at him curiously.

“You didn't like it?” His double asked from the other side of the seat, sounding disappointed. “I thought it was very useful. So much new information gained with so little work. Really a bit of genius there, John.”

John couldn't have given a smaller damn about any information, intellectual or otherwise. “You could have told me! One word, even! One word is all I ask! You may think I enjoy having these surprises sprang on me, but really I don't. You can't just keep running around with your grand secret plans, never explaining a word before it's over. It's not fair. It's not a friendly thing to do.”

“You can't expect us to inform you about every tiny detail,” Sherlock complained, fatigue making his voice bristle. “You understand so little. We'd never get anything done. Also, admit it or not but you do enjoy the suspense we create for you.”

John couldn't believe it, couldn't stop to think about it. Sherlock hadn't caught his meaning at all.

Well, truthfully, John hadn't even touched the things he had meant to say. He ignored the clear escape route Sherlock had left him, the beckoning lure for an easy fight. He reached for the familiar battle calmness, but this was worse, this time no one was in an actual danger of dying. They would all live, and that made it a thousand times more difficult.

He closed his eyes, did his best to empty his mind, and took aim. His target wavered, and it never did.

“Don't you understand what it was like, having to stand there and watch you and I,” he stopped and gulped for air, bracing himself to get it out, to come clean with this. “I got it at last. Call me slow, but I did.” He took Sherlock's hand again, studied the long tense fingers against his palm. The target came back into focus. Sherlock. He was doing this because of Sherlock. “And I realise it's difficult for you, and that's probably the reason you did it like this. And I want you to know that it's all right. I do wish you would have talked to me about it but I understand.”

“Um, John,” started the-Sherlock-with-the-laptop, but John couldn't spare energy for him right now. The git had never gotten hang of timing.

“Shut up, for once in your life just shut up,” he pleaded, and wonder of wonders, Sherlock did. And John's voice was breaking, and this was really not the right moment for that. He pushed the rest of the words out through his ever-narrowing throat. “I never meant to force this on you. I'm so sorry if I have.”

Sherlock's eyes were very pale and so very, very beautiful. They made John want to weep, and it wasn't the right moment for _that_ either. “John, while I'm -”

“Anyway, could you help me put these back on?” Asked the other Sherlock, and it was the closest John had ever come to actually strangling him to death.

“For fuck's sake, I know you don't have the slightest about timing, but this is _really_ not the moment to -”, he started, turning to a faceful of tags.

The situation took a moment to compute. At last, John deflated into the seat.

“Bloody buckering motherfucking _fuck_. Fuck. Fuck.”

Neither of Sherlock seemed to know what to do, squirming on their seats like chided puppies.

“And,” John said, his voice hollow. “The same goes for you, too. I'm terribly sorry for any discomfort I have caused. If you'd please stop this car, I'll just take my leave now.”

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed and took his hand again. “John. Listen to me. Are you listening to me?”

“It's not like I have much of a chance,” John intoned, his whole being hollowed by the stress and the embarrassment. “You're shouting into my ear.”

“Please don't make any hasty decisions,” Sherlock said in a rush, crushing John's hand between his own. “I have a better solution. Much better. Trust me. Aren't my ideas always brilliant? I've made some plans and I can assure you this all will be fixed soon.”

“What -,” the other Sherlock, _John's_ Sherlock, started again, and again he was silenced. But at least he finally managed to arrange his long limbs into a compact form, shifting restlessly on the leather seat.

“We need to deal with Moriarty first,” Sherlock explained, his grip getting tighter by second, as if he wanted to squeeze his message into John by osmosis. “He's our main priority. But after that I'll move out. There. It's solved.”

That brought John back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sherlock nodded like a lunatic, like one of those dolls with a lax spring inside their necks.

“I've found that I much prefer 221B Baker Street with both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as tenants. I trust you agree. However, the current situation is unbearable, as you yourself tried to point out. I've taken the necessary steps to fix it. Consider this a gift.”

“Self -,”

“You,” said John, barely hearing his own voice. “You are the absolute fucking worst at giving gifts.”

“It's decided then?” Sherlock asked, somehow still sounding timid and hopeful after the horrible things he had just said. “I estimate the Moriarty situation will be dealt with in a month or so. I trust we can work out a satisfactory arrangement until then. Mycroft has already -”

“Fuck Mycroft,” John interrupted eloquently, causing Sherlock to withdraw into his corner. “And fuck your plan. It's the worst plan ever.”

“Speak for yourself,” his Sherlock muttered.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock gave a sigh, one of those overly theatrical ones meant to imply that everyone within a thousand mile radius was a total imbecile. It was clear that this time he wouldn't put up with anybody speaking over him.

“John's plan is insulting and yours is, as he succinctly put it, the absolute fucking worst.”

The only reason Sherlock didn't turn his back and sulk was that they were trapped in a car. He, however, did manage some indignant hand gestures in the available space.

“It was an honest – do something, John! Keep your boyfriend in check!”

“Baker Street,” the cabbie said, a carefully trained noncommittal noise that nevertheless managed to cut through their common haze.

“Drive around the block,” John's Sherlock answered at once. “And keep driving until I say otherwise. Do not, under any circumstances, listen to these two idiots. Who knows, maybe the stupid is contagious.”

John was still petrified by the blunt assessment of his offer. Insulting? He only tried to give his Sherlock the thing he so obviously craved, the freedom he deserved. Insulting? And the other Sherlock, matter of factly telling them he was planning to move out, to free space for 'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together in 221B Baker Street'. It was too much, too absurd, to take in. He frowned at the cabbie's neck, trying and failing to understand either of his madmen.

But insulting?

For certain, if someone's offer here was insulting, it was _Sherlock's_ , not his. Baker Street was home, yes, but the thing that made it so was his total mess of a flatmate with his experiments and his impromptu violin concertos in the middle of the night and the everlasting dread John had come to associate with the fridge. Removing Sherlock, any Sherlock, from Baker Street was taking home away from home. It couldn't be done. It made no sense.

Someone took his hand again. John blinked. Maybe it was an after-effect of Sherrinford's, but there sure had been a lot of that today. He contemplated pulling his own hand away from the gentle grip, but Sherlock's skin was warm and it still was possible this would be the last time. He opted for accepting the touch but not returning it. Safer that way.

“You two,” his – and was he still his? John had no idea – Sherlock started, giving them both a disapproving frown. “Somehow you both manage to be worse than the other. I wondered about that in John a long time ago, but now I see it's a wider problem here.”

“What is?” Asked his sulky double, never one to not disprove any statement made of himself, even in the middle of a pout.

“This chivalry,” Sherlock answered, spitting the word out like it was poison. “Terrible, pre-emptive chivalry. You're both so noble, and still you lie. You lie and lie and I bet you don't even realise it anymore. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so confusing!”

“I don't lie!” John protested, while on the other side of him Sherlock bristled like a stray cat. “I'm not noble, I'm just practical!”

“You were ready to give up your home for John's happiness,” Sherlock told his double, speaking right over John's head. “If that's not chivalry I don't know what is. Yes, you are a manipulative, arrogant, neurotic, rude excuse of a human being, and you also have given life and new fire to a broken war veteran with no funds and a hair-trigger temper.”

“That was a bit not good,” John protested, but Sherlock barely spared him a glance. “I'm done being gentle and understanding. You two need to hear this.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” Sherlock argued. “I needed a flatmate. John was convenient. I told you, it was the practical thing to do.”

“Was it practical to take him on the cases?”

“He's not as slow as most of the people, and he's got medical experience. Also, he knows not to get in the way.”

“Gees, thanks Sherlock.”

“Was it practical to become friends?”

“A bit – unfortunate, I grant you that. But I guess it was unavoidable under the circumstances.”

“ _Thanks_ , Sherlock.”

“Your friendship has enabled other people to manipulate you, it has placed you both in danger countless times and now it's driving you away from your home. Why didn't you terminate is as soon as you realised the power it has over you?”

Sherlock went very still and very, very quiet.

“You don't have to answer that,” John said, long seconds into the following silence.

“Yes he does,” his double announced at once. “The noble thing again, John. It's an easy way to escape, isn't it?”

“I tried to,” Sherlock admitted with a tiny voice, making John's heart pang. “I did. It was getting inconvenient. With the Black Lotus, and later with the pips. I knew they'd eventually figure it out. But it happened faster than I thought. Didn't have time to shake him off.”

“I'm right here,” John put in, unsure how to react and picking annoyance from his pool of bad options.

“Good,” Sherlock answered. “Because I have some questions for you, too. And for your information, self, I doubt shaking him off would have been that easy.”

“It mighty well should have been,” Sherlock replied, glaring at them both. “Since I'm such a rude, neurotic, horrible son of a bitch.”

“None of that now,” his double answered. “John, would you mind telling him what you told me after meeting Victor?”

John blinked in confusion. “After meeting – oh. You mean?”

Sherlock nodded in the most serene way possible. “Look at him and tell him. Use as many words as you need to. But no lies.”

“What?” Sherlock demanded, affronted by his newly discovered lack of data. “Tell me what? Who is Victor? John?”

“It's,” John started, realising that his lips felt numb and forcing himself to look at the person he was talking to, as requested. Sherlock's face was pale and his eyes burning of the promise of withheld information. He looked sad and handsome and beautiful, and the sight of him made John's heart twist into itself. “It's not important who he is. A friend of Sherlock's. That you don't have, you don't have to remind me.”

“I was mistaken,” Sherlock answered at once. “I know now that I do. Have friends, I mean.”

John blinked. “Oh. That's – good. That's good. I'm happy for you. Will you introduce them to me some day?”

“He's talking about you, you moron,” the other Sherlock pointed out in a long-suffering tone of voice.

“Among others,” Sherlock replied, raising his own voice a bit. “There's Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade. And Molly Hooper.”

“Yes yes, very touching, back to Victor now,” the other Sherlock protested. “How you two ever get anything discussed is beyond me. You're unable to hold a topic for two sentences.”

“We managed fine before you came along,” answered Sherlock haughtily.

“As proved by the total mess you've made just now.”

“That's enough,” John told him, and Sherlock almost crushed his hand, he was pressing it so hard. It was only then that John came to think how difficult this had to be for him, uncollared and against the two of them. His eyes had a wild shine, darting between their faces, looking for something unnameable. John almost asked him if he was all right, but Sherlock had started this, and in no uncertain terms. The least John could do was to have the courtesy to perform his own role in his weird game.

Which, in this case, was confessing his love to the _other_ Sherlock.

Okay, then.

He turned, and took a deep breath, and plunged into it.

“The thing is, meeting Victor made me realise something about you. Or actually us.”

Sherlock cocked his head, bemused. “You're confused again. You must mean him. I wasn't there.”

“No.” John paused to make sure he understood. “I meant you.”

He was rewarded by a gentle brush of fingers against the palm the other Sherlock was still holding. Onward with it.

“Up until that point, I had been homesick. Very homesick. See, I was in a totally different world, I suppose that can be expected. But seeing Victor with Sherlock, with him, made me realise what I was missing the most. It wasn't just home, or my work at the clinic, or my life here in general. It for sure wasn't Harry or any of my mates, like Mike. It was one very specific thing.”

“Yes?”

“I was there, very alone, very isolated, and I was missing the one person that I love and care about the most in the world.”

“Yes?”

There were no signs of understanding in Sherlock's voice or on his face. If anything, he seemed a bit lost about the turn this conversation was taking, giving John a searching, confused look. Well, if the unadorned truth was what it took, John would deliver. 

“You.”

The simple syllable seemed to petrify Sherlock. After a moment of intense staring John had to break eye contact to make sure the man was still breathing. Thankfully, he was. Rather fast, in fact, not that it showed on his face.

“Sherlock?”

“You did well, John.”

“I wasn't talking to _you_.”

“He's processing. Might take a while.”

“What?”

“Shh. Give him a moment.”

The cab turned to Baker Street for the fifth time, then the sixth. By the ninth loop John had developed motion sickness by the uninterrupted staring and Sherlock shivered back to life. He exhaled sharply, his eyes zigzagging all over John's waiting face.

“So in fact -”

He seemed unsure how to continue, and a deep crease formed between his eyes. John nodded, trying to encourage him on. 

“You mean I'm -”

Another nod and another long, unblinking stare.

“The most?”

Nothing more was forthcoming and the other Sherlock nudged John's arm. He kind of wanted to take Sherlock's hand, too, but touching him might have not been the best idea right then. Instead he just gave him a steady look and said it again, with a less flowery language this time.

“You are the person I love and care about the most. Losing you once was the very worst thing that could have happened to me. I have no intention of willingly going through that again. Please Sherlock. Don't think about moving out. We'll fix this, yes, but let's do it together.”

Something shifted in Sherlock's eyes. He looked at John's hand, the one currently secured in his lover's grip, and tentatively touched the back of his other one. “Together?”

“Yes, together,” answered the other Sherlock, raising the tags again. “Now can somebody finally help me put this back where it belongs? I can't believe it took you ten rounds to admit the facts. Well, some of them.”

“There are more?” John asked in horror, and was answered by a predatory grin.

“Oh, loads.”


	15. Interlude III

Midnight of a very peculiar day. There were three men in 221B Baker Street, one of them lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering how his life had come to this. This, of course, meant occupying his flatmate's bed and waiting for his lover to join him after, by the lover's request, he had confessed loving said flatmate.

He fell asleep long before figuring it out, drained by the shocks the day had brought.

The two remaining men, the lover and the flatmate, studied each other behind the thin walls of the bedroom. One of them stood by the living room's windows, backlit by the electric lights pouring into the room. The other paced the width of the floor, throwing his double occasional troubled glances. When both of them were certain the third man slept, the silence was broken by careful whispers. 

“That was quite the show you put up earlier.”

A shrug of narrow shoulders, a passing car's headlamp playing for a moment over the metal chain around long throat.

“You're welcome.”

“Still. One comes to wonder – why?”

“Can the great Sherlock Holmes not deduce it by himself?”

A long silence. Both of the men counted the seconds without wanting to. The pacing one broke first.

“You really want to make me say it aloud?”

“I really do.”

“Fine. There was a woman, some time ago. Rather a brilliant woman, as we came to learn. Would have walked right over you.”

The man came to a stop, appraising the other one, smiling at an unshared memory. The waiting man twitched but stood his ground.

“Her brilliance. It was different from ours?”

“Her _speciality_ certainly was. And so she taught me that there are many types of genius. Some of them less flashy than others. We see things, and we understand why they are what they are. I can identify a software designer by his accessories and a pilot by his left thumb. Material things. The woman could not do that. She was an expert in the unseen. She used to say she knew what people liked.”

“Is this little speech of yours going somewhere?”

“No. It already arrived. I don't see what people like. I just see what they are.” 

A quick gesture of hands, pointing at many details all over the other man. He nodded, understanding and accepting the unvoiced conclusion.

“We aren't the same. My experience and knowledge make me superior in deductions, but you see inside, not quite unlike her. You see what people _want_. What _he_ wants.”

“And you.”

A quick, agitated burst of steps took the man to the other side of the room. He stood and examined the darkened wall for a moment, coming to terms with the short declaration. When he spoke again, his voice was hesitant.

“Yes. Experience tells me I should be offended.”

Now they were both smiling, secretly, not to each other.

“You aren't.”

“I'm not.”

“Why?”

The man turned around, his face full of enthusiasm.

“Our combined skills could make the most challenging case a cakewalk! Take Mr Staunton, for example. What do you make of those documents filed under 'Insurances'? Some of them really stood out to me.”

The man by the window laughed, a silent relaxed chuckle, and raised his hands in defeat. Not a minute later the laptop had been booted and the tabletop had been cleaned for work. The two men set down to it, printing and sorting hundreds of pages of correspondence. Hours passed with nary a word between them. It was only when one straightened his back that the whispering resumed.

“I didn't say it before. But thank you. I guess. I still don't know what your goal here is.”

“Watch and learn, self. Watch and learn. Bed?”

“Could as well. Ta- Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Should we tell John? About – the Arrangement?”

“You started it, it's your call. I doubt we can keep it a secret for much longer anyway. One of these days, he's going to be the one to wake up first.”

“Still -”

“Toothbrush? Still what?”

“Please. I'm just thinking, it's going to be disadvantageous, cancelling the Arrangement. I haven't slept this well – probably ever.”

“Here you are. And just keep telling yourself that. _Disadvantageous._ Is that even a word?”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Can't. Mouth full of toothpaste. Get over yourself, Sherlock, and come to bed.”


	16. While You Slept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank S, who appeared out of nowhere to do beautiful things to the flow of this story and save me hours and hours of editing time. You're the best!

An unholy howl jerked John out of his sleep in the middle of a confusing dream-rush after dozens of Mrs Hudsons, all of them chattering like maniacs and flinging accusing half-made socks at him. He felt leaden, as though he had slept both for months and for only a few short hours. The loud noise that brought him back to consciousness took him for a short mental trip to Afghanistan, and to his horror he sensed a figure looming nearby. His fists surged upwards in a desperate bid at self-defence even before his eyes had a chance to open.

His left hand grasped a fistful of fabric, pulling it closer to immobilise the attacker, and his right collided hard with something fleshy not two feet above him. He regained his vision just in time to witness Sherlock's uncombed mess of curls diving harshly downwards and colliding with his shoulder. A loud gasp of breath escaped Sherlock’s poor lungs and that sound of distress woke John up for real at last. He was in a familiar bed, certainly not in a war zone of any kind, and there was a consulting detective huddled on all fours over him, with John's misbehaving fist still digging into the soft flesh of his abdomen.

“Fuck, I'm sorry,” he hissed, letting go of Sherlock's shirt with his other hand. “Did I hurt you? Let me see.” He ran his palms up Sherlock's sides and under his jaw, tipping it gently up so that he could get to that hidden face. Had he punched him? He couldn't remember.

“John -,”

Sherlock's eyes were wide like a rabbit's, his pupils huge in the dim light creeping into the room through the frosted glass of the bathroom door. He was pale but he didn't seem to be in pain, only surprised. And John couldn't really fault him – being attacked by your lover in the middle of the night was unusual even by their standards. Which brought him straight back to the sound that had caused this all.

“What the -,” he started, just as the source of the shriek opened the bathroom door, brandishing his wet toothbrush like a sabre.

“Up up up!” He chanted, doing a little victory dance with the towel rack. “I got it! Switzerland! He's a clever one, they never went to Switzerland!”

Ignoring the madman loudly congratulating himself and most likely waking the whole street in the process, John gave Sherlock a sheepish grin. Sherlock, in turn, didn't seem to be in any hurry to go anywhere, preferring to loom over his lover's reclining body and send little puffy breaths tickling their way down his chest. The man must be exhausted. He must have been coming to bed, and it was obvious that there wouldn't be any sleep to be had now.

“No time to rest now!” Sherlock shouted in the kitchen, cementing John's suspicions. “We've got bankers to find, mysteries to solve.”

“Sorry, love,” John whispered, rising up to his elbows and planting a little kiss on Sherlock's shivering nose. “You know how he gets. Louder, I mean. It's better to move right away.”

His lover didn't answer, instead staring at John as though he was The Second Coming personified. John frowned. While Sherlock was sometimes skittish and bashful around him, this was unusual. Maybe he thought John was angry at being woken up so brutally?

“Not angry at you,” John reassured him, running a lazy hand through the conveniently close curls, tugging just a little at the sensitive skin, the way Sherlock liked best. The man's eyes almost rolled back and he followed the movement helplessly, not wanting it to end. John gave him a fond smile and a swift tap to his pert arse, enough to sting for a second. “Up you get now.”

It still wasn't enough. Sherlock let out a questioning little whimper but otherwise didn't move his petrified limbs. The shy hint of breath escaping his lips could have formed John's name, but it was so quiet John couldn't tell for sure. He let the hand in Sherlock's curls slide downwards until it encountered an elegant neck, pulling the crouching man forward until their noses were touching. This time, there was no question about the trembling 'John' that left Sherlock's mouth, panicked.

John froze. Then, very carefully, he swept his fingers up and down that long neck, searching. Sherlock was so close John could hear him gulping, feel his arms trembling on both sides of his own skull. His own happy humming turned into a sharp inhale.

“In my defence, it _is_ my bed,” Sherlock let out, shivered alive and rolled off him with all characteristic grace gone from his limbs. He made a beeline for the bathroom and shut the door loudly. John was left entertaining his awkward erection alone in the bed with half a dozen unvoiced questions and a temper that didn't know if it should boil right over or shrink back into horrified arousal.

–

It took John ten very long minutes to make it into the kitchen where another Sherlock, this one with shiny tags securely in their place around his throat, was busy hacking into a laptop.

“Don't be cross,” Sherlock told him, which was a bit rich considering that he hadn't even seen John yet.

“I have every possible reason to be cross,” John declared, coming to stand behind his shoulder. “What the fuck was that, Sherlock? What was _he_ doing in bed with me?”

Sherlock shrugged the half-hearted shrug of the uncaring, his fingers never once leaving the keyboard.

“He was just being practical.”

Breathe. Ella was always telling him to breathe when the anger tried to take over. With these two, John would never run out of oxygen. His voice was steady when he finally trusted himself to continue the conversation.

“Practical.”

“He saves a considerable number of steps going over the bed instead of around it, you know.”

Nope. Breathing didn't help shit.

“Are you kidding me?”

Sherlock gave him a long, bland look. “You have the evidence, you claim to know the perpetrator. Now deduce.”

Sherlock had to be fibbing. What he insisted made no fucking sense. Not even for his double. Not even Sherlock could – but then again, Sherlock routinely walked over the living room table because his precious feet were too lazy to take the three extra steps needed to go around it. John pinched his nose in despair.

“What would he even need from the other side – no, you know what, forget it. I don't want any part of that.”

“Is that so?”

“Is that – Sherlock, I almost _kissed_ him,” John whispered furiously, very aware that the person they were discussing was barricaded close by behind a very thin wall and an even flimsier door. “I thought it was you. I _pinched_ his fucking arse. I was _this_ close to fondling his balls.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered with a serene voice. “And yesterday you told him you loved him. And no part of your current situation would have been necessary if you had taken my word as gospel and did exactly what I said, when I said it.”

“Oh shut up,” his own voice answered him from the other side of the room and John couldn't help the shiver going up his spine. He spun around, a hapless tin soldier in the whims of a spring.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the corner of the kitchen, throwing defiant looks at both of them, his dressing gown wrapped tight like a shield. “We have a case, if anyone still cares,” he declared curtly. “Explain your point, self.”

“I’m planning to,” the other one agreed, and just like that the two of them shifted into working mode, leaving John with unasked questions and absolutely no forthcoming answers whatsoever.

No matter what Sally thought, if one of them would commit a murder it wouldn't be Sherlock. Either of him.

“John, while you slept we went through Mark Staunton's computer files. E-mails, documents, photos, everything. And sitting in his home folder, just waiting for us, we found these.” He clicked open four photos. Two of them were of a young boy, apparently Jacob Staunton. In the first one he was walking down a street, his face towards the camera and his school bag over his shoulder. In another he was swimming in the family's pool while his mother lay in a hammock reading a book. The other two were of Monica, one photo taken through an open window of her baking in the kitchen, and another of her napping on the sofa. Above every photo someone had added the phrases _too easy_ and _not a word_. John whistled, the ugliness of it helping him to forget his own troubles.

“So they had a stalker.”

“They did, and it seems like he was ready to do more than just snap unwanted photos,” the other Sherlock said, coming closer to peek at the screen. John willed himself to remain passive. Suddenly the banker's disappearance felt more threatening and his own little meltdown meaningless in comparison.

“And this wasn't any e-mail attachment either,” his lover continued. “The photos were literally put on his computer. Someone broke in and hacked into it, just to make the point that he could. Also, there's no way to trace him that way.”

John shivered and thought about that house, just a pleasant home in a quiet neighbourhood. How defenceless it must have looked to Mark Staunton. How terrifying it had been to leave his wife and kid alone in there, knowing that this person was following them.

“Was there anything else? Something explaining what happened to him?”

“We couldn't find anything of interest. Some of his insurance files looked a bit suspicious, but those cleared up too in the end. So we decided to call it a night. Sherlock went to the bedroom, for reasons I'm sure he'll explain to you later,” and here he gave his double a veritable death glare, “but I felt we had missed something. And obviously we had. Switzerland!”

Sherlock huffed like an angry cat deprived of his amusement.

“You keep saying that, and it's very annoying. Would you mind explaining yourself?”

John turned to him. “ _You_ call it annoying? You if anyone should know better.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Sherlock declared haughtily. “Taggy, keep going.”

“Around the house they had little mementos of their trips. Souvenirs, photos and so on. It seemed to me that there was something from every holiday they'd had. But here, on the laptop, they have the rest of the photos. And it turns out,” Sherlock explained, opening the relevant folder, “that one trip was missing from their souvenir collection. All together now, Switzerland.”

The folder contained a dozen stock family vacation photos.

“And it's recent, too,” he continued. “These were created only a few months ago.”

“Show me,” demanded the other one, crouching closer. “If you're right about this, and the clue is in the broken pattern, very good. Excellent observation skills, self.”

John could feel Sherlock vibrating in his seat, but his voice didn't betray his pleasure. He opened the first of the photos, one of Jacob running through a field. There were green sloping mountains in the distance.

“Not Switzerland,” he declared with conviction. “I bet they never went to Switzerland at all. It's obvious when you think about it.”

John stared at the happy smiling faces in the next photograph. They didn't tell him any of their secrets.

“Okay, so what are we looking for?”

Sherlock clicked through the rest of the photos in quick succession. “Clues. Something out of place. Something he left for me.”

The only thing John saw was boring vacation photos. Monica had a beautiful smile when she wasn't crying. The landscape reminded him vaguely of Scotland. He mentioned that aloud, hoping it would help. No one paid him any attention at all. Typical.

“Stop,” Sherlock commanded, leaning over his double's shoulder. “Go back.”

It was a photo of all three of them and a shaggy cow with a truly colossal nose ring. John stared, wondering what he should be seeing. That ring really dominated the picture.

“Over her shoulder,” Sherlock said. “Is that -”

“A waterfall,” his double hissed in victory. “Found it.”

“Wait a moment,” John protested, tearing his gaze off the distracting cow. “Care to walk me through it?”

Twin stares of disappointment met his demand. “Come on, John.”

“I'm serious. I was woken up by a banshee just over half an hour ago. There was some stuff,” he very carefully did not look at the Sherlock looming over his lover's other shoulder. “I need the occasional boost.”

“Not Switzerland,” Sherlock answered as if it explained everything. “Waterfalls.”

John waited. Experience had told him that patience was often the best way to deal with irritating geniuses. If that failed, there was always the option of violence.

“The Reichenbach Falls are in Switzerland,” the other Sherlock added. “Our connection. The clue was in the lock screen already, hidden in plain sight. There must be a message in the waterfall photo in the Switzerland folder.”

“Okay,” John replied slowly. “Are there any other photos of waterfalls?”

There weren't. John left them with the computer and hurried off to boil some water for coffee. It wasn't yet six in the morning, and he shared a kitchen with two lunatics and the kind of questions he really couldn't ask either of them. There seemed to be something going on between them, something his Sherlock felt the other one should tell John. Some kind of game, perhaps? Whatever it was, John had little doubt his Sherlock knew what the other one had been trying to do. And though it made him feel selfish, he couldn't stop wondering about it no matter what danger Mark Staunton might be in right now. For as long as the water boiled, he would to allow his mind to wander. There was a team of Sherlocks on the case already. One absent-minded John Watson could hardly make a difference.

So what the hell had Sherlock been doing in the bed? And oh God, if John hadn't figured it out in time, would Sherlock have let John kiss him rather than break his cover? How far would he have allowed it to go? Even the casual closeness John had adopted had thrown him off. He had been practically petrified by the end of a very mild cuddling session!

_I was an inch away from kissing him. Him, Sherlock bloody Holmes the Original. The untouchable. And he didn't exactly tell me not to. Although he didn't encourage me either._

_I have no idea what to do with this information._

The water boiled, and John was no closer to answers than he had been a minute ago.

A sudden shuffling around the laptop hinted that the multiverse just didn't want John Watson to have his explanations, or his coffee for that matter.

“John! Call a cab!”

He stared at the happy cloud of steam rising from the kettle and realised he wouldn't have anything to do with it. He raised a hopeful hand towards it anyway. Five minutes. All he needed was five minutes. He'd have it instant this time, even.

“For shame, John. We've got an address, and we’ve already lost the whole night to trivialities.”

This was technically correct, although John wasn't as ready as the other two to categorise sleeping as just another petty thing, like eating or explaining to your flatmate why you're crawling over him while he's unconscious. He bid a silent goodbye to the caffeine and went looking for his phone.

“But it was just a photo of three people and a cow,” he mused later when they were sitting in the car. He didn't have the slightest doubt about Sherlocks' abilities, but he enjoyed hearing about the process that led them to results. If they told him there was an address hidden in a photo of a large hairy mammal when John himself couldn’t even see half a letter, then there was. His Sherlock was eager to explain, proud of himself and this breakthrough in their investigation.

“The message wasn't _in_ the photo. The photo itself was the message. There's an information field attached to each image file, and he had added the address there. It's hidden until you go looking for it, so any potential stalker wouldn't immediately see it among thousands of similar files. And still, it's so simple even you could do it.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. That was heartening. And this place we're going to, what's there?”

“Nothing,” answered the other Sherlock with a little unhappy shrug. “Nothing of interest in any case. It’s just a street corner downtown. I suspect it’s the meeting place the stalker-turned-kidnapper gave him. Otherwise Staunton would have called the police on him days ago.”

“So the plan is to go there and look around, hoping to find something?” 

It sounded like standard sherlockian fare, full of holes you could drive a tank through. His commanding officer in the army would have had a stroke, but weirdly enough Sherlock's 'plans' worked surprisingly often.

“Have you got any better ideas?”

He didn’t. Sherlock sighed.

“John. He has already shown his skills at leaving clues the stalker hasn’t noticed. Is it not too much of a stretch to hope that he left something there, too?”

Fine. He relaxed against the seat, trying not to feel the heat of Sherlock’s leg against his own in the little available space they had to share. God, this was already turning into one hell of a day.

–

If Mark Staunton had indeed left something for them on the very unremarkable corner between Tesco’s and a post office, John couldn’t figure out what it could have been. The street had been recently swept, and only the hardiest of litter could be found trampled on the ground. There were no graffiti or posters to hide messages in, no bushes to bury clues under.

Sherlock was investigating a nearby bus stop with a scowl on his face and there was another of him kicking the leaves by the roadside. The morning traffic was only just beginning, with tired people queuing up for the bus. A young man, apparently a cleaner judging by the equipment he was carrying, unlocked the post office door. John, feeling left out once more, hurried over to him.

“Excuse me, can I ask you a question?”

The man gave him an uninterested glance. “Yeah?”

“Have you seen anything unusual around here? People fighting, or anything like that?”

“There’s a pub around the corner, I suppose people fight all the time,” the man said, yawning. “But I only drop by in the mornings, when it’s as quiet as can be. This one time someone tried to break into Tesco’s during the night. Glass and cops everywhere. Did someone get their head bashed in?”

“Um, no,” John smiled. “Nothing so dramatic.”

Well, that had been a long shot anyway. He let the man go and turned to consider the people waiting for the bus. Maybe one of them would know something?

“John!”

It was Sherlock, heading towards bags of rubbish that his double was sorting through, provoking questioning mutters from the group. Before any of them could make up their minds about whether this qualified as littering or not, Sherlock had already finished and stalked to an opening to a nearby alley, John fast on his heels. A bus turned the corner in a distance, and the people on the street forgot all about them in their quest to find their Oyster cards before it reached the stop.

Sherlocks crouched together at the back of the alley, staring at old-looking brown scribbles on the wall. John peeked at them over their shoulders.

“Did you find something?”

“No.”

It was his Sherlock, curt and more than a little disappointed. He got up with a flourish, a feat he managed even without the Belstaff, and paced the alley restlessly.

“There’s something we’ve missed, there has to be.”

John shared a glance with his friend. They had been here before, at the end of a promising trail, with nothing to show for their efforts. It was always more difficult when there was someone on the other end who needed help. This must be new for his Sherlock, even more dispiriting than for them.

Sherlock had frozen, his back to them and facing the street. The bus sped past them, filled with people.

“Shut up.”

Another glance. They hadn’t said a word, neither of them. John sighed.

“I know it’s difficult -”

“Shut up. I’m listening.”

They walked over to him, curious now. Sherlock was standing rooted to the spot, straining to hear something happening out in the street, behind a corner. Then John could hear it too, someone swearing furiously and kicking something hard with all their might, possibly the bus stop. Then it struck him. He knew that voice, that exasperated, irate, _dependable_ voice.

“Is that -”

No. It made no sense. Or the kind of sense it did make was the twisted sort John didn’t want to have anything to do with. This wasn’t good.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock confirmed in a whisper. “He must have been in the bus. But what is he doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	17. A Pastime For The Whole Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the best and the bossiest beta around and you can all thank her that this chapter is out today.

”Something is wrong,” John decided and took a step towards the mouth of the alley. ”I'm going over there.”

At once, there was a hand on each of his shoulders, pulling him back.

”Don't,” Sherlock ordered in a whisper.

”Why the hell not? It's Greg!”

”It's no coincidence that he's here,” answered the man behind his other shoulder. ”Not after yesterday, not after we found Mark Staunton's message.”

”So he knows something,” John insisted, trying to tug himself free from the twin grips of stubbornness holding him in place.

”Listen to him, though,” Sherlock told him just as Lestrade let out a particularly loud and colourful phrase. ”Does he sound like he's on top of the situation?”

”So he needs our help!”

”How did he know to come here? We have the laptop and the address. Did he figure something out? What has changed, and why didn't he tell us?”

”Why didn't we tell him?” John countered. ”It was bloody five thirty in the morning. It was the decent thing to do.”

”No, he's right,” Sherlock defended his double. ”Lestrade’s not that bright. Someone must have tipped him off. The question is, who?”

”Let's go and ask him,” John huffed, fed up with his duo of thick geniuses. But still the hands held him back, and out of sight Greg had graduated to repeatedly kicking the bus stop. He would get an ASBO if he kept that up for much longer, Detective Inspector or not.

”It's not for me, if he was here for me he'd be shouting at me already,” Sherlock muttered to himself, uncaring both of the action out in the street and the agitation it caused in John. ”So it's something else – or someone else. Best to observe, let it play out.”

”Impotent rage.”

That got Sherlock's attention.

”What?”

”Lestrade attacking the environment means impotent rage.”

It was John's Sherlock, the one who was welcome to his bed anytime of the day. His statement earned him a  look of grudging respect from his double, the tosser who  was apparently in the habit of extending that welcome to himself on a genetic basis.

John shook his head. That had come from nowhere. They had an escalating situation here, concentrate, you fool of a Watson.

”I've never irked him that badly.” Sherlock sounded almost awed, as if a new vista full of tantalising possibilities had been opened to him.

”I never said it was me,” came the cool answer, and it was then that John realised how little Sherlock still knew about that other place. And, come to think of it, how little he knew himself. What could have made the other Greg so furious?

John remembered the man well. He had been strict, stricter maybe than his counterpart here, but still himself. He had still cared for Sherlock. That Lestrade had been in a difficult situation between his pompous boss and his misbehaving friend, or consultant, or whatever Sherlock had been to him there. But John couldn't imagine Greg, that Greg or any other Greg for that matter, losing his temper so completely. So what had caused it, something drastic enough to prompt Sherlock to remember it now?

His stomach felt cold. Sherlock was safe now. He was safe and free, here with the two of them. Still, though –

”Sherlock?”

”Yes, John?”

”We're going to talk about this. Later. But today.”

A sigh. Then, a surprisingly mild: ”Yes, John.”

”Shut up you two, something is happening.”

It was a car, braking fast from a great speed. Sherlock, never releasing John's captive shoulder, crept closer to the alley's entrance. A man was speaking, apparently from inside the car. The driver, maybe? How many of them were out there?

”You alone?”

”Obviously.”

”Unarmed?”

” _Obviously._ ” Lestrade sounded angry enough to strangle puppies, not intimidated at all _and_ he was borrowing Sherlock's catch phrase. John flinched. Whatever that man had done to him, it had to be bad. Very bad.

”Show me your phone.”

By now Sherlock was standing pressed against the corner, wanting to take a peek.

”Don't you dare,” his double whispered furiously, inching closer himself until they were front to back against the alley wall, wiggling for a better listening spot. It was the quietest, most delicate struggle for control John had ever witnessed, and it kind of made him want to pinch the closest idiot. Then the man in the car spoke again, alerting him to the actual important things happening.

_Sheesh, Watson._

”Good. Now throw it into that bin. Your coat too. And be quick about it!”

They listened to the dull thump of the required items being tossed. Soon after, the door to the car was opened and a second later, it sped away, passing their alley. Sherlocks extricated themselves from each other and the wall, rushing to see where it would go.

”Black unwashed Audi, kept outside in the rain, windows darkened, no passengers except Lestrade, driver a middle-aged Caucasian man, accent suggests Italian origin, turning left.”

”I got the registration number,” John said out of habit, experiencing something of a déjà-vu.

”Good,” answered his Sherlock without the slightest bit of sarcasm, going for the nearest bin to search for Greg's discarded possessions. ”Where's a cab when you need one?”

Sherlock's phone, somehow already in his hand, beeped an incoming text message. He flicked it open and quickly scanned the screen.

”Good boy,” he declared in satisfaction just as another black car stopped next to them. John recognised it as one of Mycroft's armada of unmarked vehicles, all of them clean and shiny despite the current weather. So did the other Sherlock, who took an alarmed step back, his hand going fretfully to the tags.

”That's not a cab!”

”I took the liberty of contacting my brother when that Audi appeared,” said Sherlock over his shoulder, already climbing inside. ”Come on! We're losing them!”

Sherlock froze. It took John a second to understand the reason.

”He's not there,” he said, taking his lover's hand. ”It's just the driver. It's safe.”

”Hurry!”

John pushed Sherlock into the car. It started moving as soon as their feet left the pavement.

–

”Mister Holmes,” said the driver. He was a clean-shaven middle-aged man in a sharp suit, looking snappy and alert, built more like an athlete than a chauffeur. There was a cup of coffee in the console next to him, the only hint of humanity John could spot. ”And Doctor Watson. And Mister Holmes. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

”You too,” answered John's Sherlock, looking a bit taken back. However, the reassuring absence of Mycroft in the car seemed to help him to calm down.

”Follow that car, the black Audi that just left,” his double almost bit his tongue in his excitement, straining to see over the driver's shoulder. The car had disappeared behind a corner, but it couldn't have got far without attracting attention.

”Any wishes concerning discretion, sir?”

”Yes. Be,” John put in, thrown back by the driver's matter-of-fact attitude towards the paradoxes caused by multiversal travel. Exactly what kind of training did Mycroft's minions have to receive just to drive cars? And how many of them were around, lurking on the streets of London through all hours, given that this one had materialised no more than five minutes after Sherlock's call?

Sherlock himself, however, had no time for such idle speculation. He rounded on his double like a hawk, trying to snatch Greg's salvaged coat from his hands. A little tug of war ensued, making John very happy that he wasn't, for a change, the one sitting in the middle.

“Boys, boys, _behave_ ,” he reprimanded them, certain that everything happening in this car would make its way to Mycroft's ears. Unless the car was bugged and Mycroft already listened in, of course. John's Sherlock seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he surrendered the coat and tossed John Greg's phone to keep it away from the other's agile fingers. The winning party fell over his prize, rummaging through the pockets and then sniffing at the fabric alarmingly loudly. 

John rolled his eyes. So Greg was smoking again. Poor man, his job didn't lend itself to letting go of that habit. _Those things will kill you,_ he had used to tell Sherlock. But then Sherlock had started nicking Greg's cigarettes instead of his handcuffs, and the DI had stopped reprimanding him.

”Anything special about his coat?”

Before Sherlock could answer, the driver turned a corner and joined the morning traffic flowing through the bigger streets. ”I can see them. He's heading north-west, away from the commercial centre. There are a dozen vehicles between us.”

”Good. Keep this distance, but don't lose them,” John answered, keeping his eyes on Sherlocks.

”Nothing in the coat,” came the answer when Sherlock managed to extricate himself from the tempting smell of nicotine. “Not even gum in his pockets. Not even an ID. That's unusual. He usually carries a few these days. Clever of him, considering.”

“So there wasn't a gun?” The other Sherlock specified.

”Oh, he has a gun.”

John gave Sherlock a sharp glance. ”How do you know?”

Sherlock waved his own phone in the air.

”He sent me a message before getting into the car. A pre-written one, he only had to press send while binning the phone.”

John grinned. He should have known. Lestrade wasn't stupid or easily victimised. He had gone into that car with a plan and vengeance on his mind. ”Well, what does it say?”

Sherlock's eyes flew over the text as he read aloud.

”A man called this morning. Did not give a name. Said he's got Mark. Credible audio proof. Told me to come meet him unless I want to hear what a shot in the knee sounds like. Said he'd know if I contacted anyone. Let's see him detect this. I have a gun and I put an electronic tag on myself. Call Sally, she knows how to locate me. Let's get this bastard.” Sherlock finished and nodded in satisfaction.

”Looks like he's got it in hand. Is there anything of interest in that phone of his?”

John gave the old and rather battered phone back to his lover, who spent a moment checking it and then shook his head.

”Nothing from this morning apart from the call. It's timed 5:57, must be the one. Lasted a couple of minutes. Enough time to make his point and give Lestrade the address.”

”And the number?”

”Private. I doubt we could trace it, considering the efforts the kidnapper has gone to before to preserve anonymity. It’s probably a pre-paid account.”

“Let's call Donovan,” John decided, going for his own phone. Sherlock put his hand over John's.

“Don't. He didn't know we would be right there. We don't need Sally to track him down. It's three of us, or four if you count Lestrade, against one man. We won't need the Yard.”

John took a deep breath. Sherlock really hadn't thought this one through.

“What if he's armed? What if he's not alone? We know he has Staunton, and his safety is a priority.”

Sherlock hummed but didn't look concerned. Of course he didn't.

“Did you take your own gun?”

John gave him a stern stare, but when it didn't have any effect he tried reasoning. “Why would I take a weapon with me to check out an empty strip of street?”

“It's in his coat pocket,” said the other Sherlock, his voice mild. “He hasn't yet left home without it.”

John gave up. That was true, although he hadn't really planned it that way. It had become a habit: his coat, his phone, the keys, the Sig. After all, Sherlock had kept it for him, had probably fought to be allowed to. Of course John would take care of it now in turn, take care of both of his madmen if the need arose.

“Yes, I have it,” he conceded in defeat, patting said pocket. “But don't go counting on me always carrying it around.” He spared a glance at the driver. “After all, that's illegal.”

He didn't have any fantasies about Mycroft not knowing about the Sig, but appearances had to be maintained. Even if everyone present knew that they were only that.

“So we have four people and two weapons against likely just one,” Sherlock summarised. “And the advantage of surprise on our side. The Yard would only get in the way.”

John started to protest, but the driver interrupted him.

”He's slowing down. What do you want me to do?”

The whole back seat perked up.

”Already? Keep the distance if you can. Make sure you're not spotted. Why is he slowing?”

”Seems like he’s turning towards a residential area.”

”It's the neighbourhood where the Stauntons live,” John realised. “What kind of a bastard are we dealing with? Where is he taking Greg?”

–

It was a house one street over from the Stauntons, an older red-brick traditional townhouse with a shabby garden and painted wooden fences. It didn't look ominous at all, just another expensive home for busy and stressed city-dwellers. The street was coming alive with people leaving for work and school, and nobody gave a second glance to the black Audi when it stopped outside the house.

Mycroft's driver went straight past it, turned a corner and came face-to-face with a school bus.

“Keep going,” Sherlock said. “It's too busy here now. We'd attract attention bursting in like this. Better let the kids go first. Lestrade can handle himself for a moment.”

John shivered at the thought of children in the middle of a possible gunfight and silently agreed. Greg knew what he was about. He'd be all right.

They found a quieter spot down the street and parked there, making their way back to the house on foot. The driver was on the phone before the doors even closed.

“Informing Mycroft, I suppose?” John asked his companions.

“That service isn't free, you know,” Sherlock answered, keeping an eye on the street. “I wouldn't have called them at all if it wasn't for Lestrade. My dear brother will have a fit. Suits him though, maybe it will burn a couple of those calories he so despises.”

“Good,” answered John's Sherlock, wrapping himself in Greg's coat. “If he insists on having his people out at all hours, the least we can do is offer them some entertainment.”

The car was empty and the house looked peaceful when they reached it, watching from a careful distance. John couldn't spot any movement in the windows, nothing to suggest that this was anything other than someone's home. Sherlock seemed to agree with him.

“No one was surprised to see his car here,” he pointed out. “He must be at least a regular visitor, if not the owner himself. Let's go.”

Now it was John's turn to grasp his arm. “There's no shelter, and he's likely to have a gun,” he said. “There might still be more people inside. It's too dangerous.”

Sherlock studied the scene for a moment, but it was the other one who answered. “The neighbour's side,” he said. “There are some thick bushes there, see? That whole family left when we went past. No one would see us and call the cops. We can climb the fence when we're on the side of the house, there are fewer windows there and the foliage offers the shelter we need. Follow me.”

“Sounds like you've done this before,” Sherlock muttered, but did as he was told and went after his double. John hurried after them, the reassuring weight of the Sig heavy in his pocket. He didn't like this part, the unease and the wait before the first trigger was pulled, the first shouted command given.

But this wasn't Afghanistan, he reminded himself. Just a house in London, not a war zone.

Didn't make it any less deadly, though.

In the army John had had intense practice in placing his steps so that they didn't make a sound over different surfaces, but the two Sherlocks managed fine too, considering their urban preferences. The silence grew heavy when they crept past the towering bushes. A dry twig broke under somebody's foot and then they were by the waist-high fence, peeking over it to see the house.

Sherlock had been correct. There were two little windows high on the wall on the first floor, indicating a bathroom. A closed door stood between the windows, opening onto a little porch with a painted bench and a heavy iron table with an ashtray on it. There were two trees between them and the porch, a distance of about fifteen feet.

Over the fence they went and up to the porch, where one Sherlock crouched to inspect the door while the other rose to tiptoe to peer inside the windows, leaving John to stand guard over their exposed backs.

“Could be wired,” he whispered. He was anxious to get into the house and get Greg out of there, but not anxious enough to trigger every possible alarm on the way in.

“It's a bathroom,” murmured the Sherlock on the window. “Empty, but used. I see two towels on a drying rack. A bit of moisture on the window glass. Someone has taken a shower this morning.”

“That's one damn cosy kidnapper,” John mused. “What's his modus operandi, taking them in and playing happy families?”

“A wire, coming towards the door,” Sherlock hissed. “We can't go in that way.”

“Let's try the back.”

They were just about to move when they heard shouting from the house, the voices muffled by walls but still audible. Something heavy shattered, the sound of breaking glass recognisable even from outside. Someone started screaming and didn't stop. Was it Greg? Was he hurt? John couldn't tell. They broke into a run. The shouts grew louder, at least three different voices fighting for dominance. Something was slammed against a wall.

Four windows on the back wall, all of them closed. Sherlock gave them one glance, turned around and rushed back to the side door, followed closely by the others. Alerting the people inside wasn't the biggest threat any more. Sherlock stopped in front of the door, stared at it for half a second and turned to face his double.

“You’re a quicker pick than me, do you have the tools?”

“How could I? Just give me yours.”

A quick flash of silver emerged from the pockets of the Belstaff coat, changing hands without a comment. John stared. Here, again, was something neither of them had deemed necessary to mention to him. Why – and when – had they felt the need to compare this particular skill set?

“How do you know which one of you is quicker?” He asked, but then the door was open, the shouting voices grew instantly louder and one of them was Greg, one of them was definitely Greg. The alarm started screaming and there was no time for answers. John rushed inside in front of the others, Sig drawn. A quick glance confirmed Sherlock's earlier word, the bathroom was empty. There was only one door to choose, and since the alarms had already announced their entrance, John saw no reason to be subtle about it.

“Police!” He yelled, reasoning that Greg wouldn’t mind that particular lie, and went through the door with a kick and a bang. There was no one waiting for him on the other side, but the even louder sounds of fighting came from somewhere downstairs. Somewhere else, upstairs maybe, someone was pounding on something wooden and screaming for help with all their might. John turned around in the corridor, unsure where he should go.

“To your right,” said the first Sherlock on the line behind him, and John charged forward. The sounds of fight ended with a loud crash and someone swearing. Was it Greg? John ran faster.

In some other part of the house, a door was opened and thrown closed. Behind him, one of Sherlocks swore and took to the stairs.

There was another door ahead, and John crashed through it as he had done with the first one, yelling police. His gun still drawn, he found himself in a kitchen with Greg leaning on a counter, holding out his own gun in their direction. Shards of a fallen mirror littered the floor and three chairs lay scattered and broken around the room.

They both stopped, face to face and weapons drawn, catching their breath. Greg lowered his gun first and pressed his palm over his ribs, grimacing. Out in the street, a car sped away with howling tyres.

“Lost him,” Greg said as an unnecessary welcome, clearly miffed by the fact. “You were fast. Too fast, I should say. I was winning until he heard you and got spooked. Got a toaster to my face. I didn't expect you for another half an hour yet. Where's Sally?”

“Not here,” answered John, the adrenaline making him unhelpful, and scanned the room for any other threats. It was only when he decided it was safe that he realised he was holding a technically illegal gun in front of a Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, and put it hastily away. Greg, however, just grunted and rolled his eyes.

Good man, Greg. And also holding himself quite stiffly against the counter. A different kind of worry filled John's mind.

“Are you hurt?”

“He tossed me around a bit when I didn't agree to a body search,” the DI answered. “The first swing took me by surprise, he's a quick one. But I got a couple of good punches in myself. It's nothing serious.”

“What was he after?” Sherlock asked. Greg shrugged.

“Well, that is the question, isn't it? Honestly, I have no idea what he wanted with me. To me it seemed like _he_ had no idea either, and wasn't particularly happy with it, I can tell you.”

“So it wasn't his plan,” Sherlock realised. “He was acting on orders. And whoever gave him those orders didn't trust him enough to divulge the whole thing.”

“John! Sherlock! I found Staunton, he's right here,” shouted another Sherlock from upstairs. Greg went oddly silent, like he didn't quite believe what he had just heard. Then he cocked his head in the resigned way John had seen a thousand times before and raised his own voice.

“Sherry?”

The answer was joyous and, John realised, pressing his eyes shut, just a bit _flirty_.

“Hi Greg!”

The Detective Inspector groaned and gave the two of them who were still downstairs an unimpressed look.

“What?” Asked Sherlock curtly, crossing his hands over his chest.

“Right, no problems,” Greg intoned. “Crime-solving is, after all, a pastime fit for the whole family. I should have realised sooner that you would bring him. Don't you think he's a bit – delicate – for this sort of stuff?”

“You should see this, it's really gross!” Came the strange yet familiar Sherrinford-voice from upstairs. Greg groaned again, and so did John. Sherlock would never, ever say gross. But Sherrinford had no such limits, and that had come out sounding so _happy_ , it had to be calculated.

“He'll be fine,” Sherlock confirmed, an odd tone of pride in his voice. “We Holmeses are always fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com/) for news and sneak peeks. Thank you for reading!


	18. Not Allowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, eh? I've been working hard on this story for the whole summer, helped by my long-suffering beta Silver, and you'll see the results every Monday from now on. Welcome back!

Reuniting Mark Staunton with his wife and son was a tearful affair, and one John couldn't help but feel he was intruding on. Greg seemed to agree, and after one glance into the room housing the sobbing family he went full DI, grimaced and shut the door between them and Sherlock's bloodhound face. Said face gained at least five inches more chin and a baleful glare as a result. Greg stepped in front of the metal door to stand guard, giving as good a glare as he got.

“Ten minutes,” he told the scowling detective. “You can survive that long without new information. Give them a bloody moment, you if anyone should know what it feels like to get a lost one back.”

Sherlock muttered something low and vicious, but didn’t take the fight any further. Sherrinford – his Sherlock this time, the tags hastily removed on the back seat of yet another smoky police car – buzzed in place like an awkward bee, at times wringing his hands and at times clinging to John's sleeve. Greg gave him another long, hard stare, clearly wondering what he was even doing there. In response, the hold on John's arm just tightened. And John himself studied the sickly green walls of the corridor, not knowing how he should react.

They still hadn't really talked about it.

Even an idiot could have seen that Sherlock hadn't taken John's disappearance well. But actually broaching the subject, leaving them both vulnerable to yet another emotional shitstorm, had proven too difficult. Even their small, tentative steps in that direction had turned sour almost immediately. John still remembered Sherlock's flat voice when he had tried to explain his side of the story, that very first morning, still bleak with the setting shock.

_So, you just settled down with him._

And that had been it. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock had almost completely sidestepped his own explanation of the lost time. He had given outlines, yes, told what Lestrade had done, how Mycroft had helped. The standard casework he had shared willingly enough, but whenever they had touched on anything personal, Sherlock had immediately shut the discussion down.

And so the days had passed, and they had failed to talk about it. And now here they were, in the sickly green corridor of NSY, all of them avoiding each other’s eyes.

Greg, damn his misplaced insight, cottoned on instantly and gave them an incredulous stare. It was the kind usually reserved for Anderson's most outlandish theorising or, horror of horrors, Sherlock being nice to people.

“You haven't talked about it? What was going on when you were gone? You _really_ haven't?”

“We have,” John answered because yes, technically they had, that once, and it had been horrible. But that was something Greg didn't need to know, and with any luck he would let the matter rest.

“Right,” said Greg instead, scepticism clear in his voice. “John.”

John flinched. That tone of voice usually meant extra paperwork for him because Sherlock, the prick, had messed up worse than usual. Priceless Ming vases might have been shattered, badly shaken people given extra shock blankets.

“Yeah?”

“We're going out, for drinks, tonight.”

Greg's voice offered no compromise. This was going to be worse than paperwork. This was reaching mycroftian levels of weirdly-sexual-remarks-in-fricking-Buckingham-Palace awkwardness. John pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if there was any point in declining, or if it would just lead to another fake drugs bust.

“You can't do that!” Sherlock sounded just as horrified as John felt. Sherrinford, however, perked up right away, letting go of John and latching himself onto Lestrade's arm like a particularly persistent leech.

“May I come too? Please, Greg!”

“No!”

It had come from all three of them, John and Greg and even Sherlock. Sherrinford, John's poor Sherlock, shrank back as if they'd slapped him. John scrunched his eyes shut. He wanted to reach out for him but thought better of it. Sherlock was strong. He could take a denial, he probably just hadn't been expecting quite that strong one. Still, John made sure his voice would come out neutral before he dared to open his mouth.

“I, I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“It's not,” Sherlock agreed at once. “You're correct, John. It's an absolutely horrendous idea. Talking? In pubs? Even my brother couldn't have come up with a worse one.”

Funny that his thoughts, too, would go straight to Mycroft.

“Fine,” said Greg, crossing his arms. “Then I'll have to cut you off from this investigation. Can't have you two wandering around being non-communicative. This stupidity could place my team in danger. I won't have that.”

“We just saved your skin,” Sherlock pointed out. “Is this how you repay us?”

“Actually, you disobeyed my direct order to contact Sally and then scared the suspect away,” Greg corrected him, rolling his eyes. “By illegally breaking into his house while he was under investigation. _And_ you took your little brother with you to do it, who does that?”

“I'm not his little brother!”

The indignant outburst was cut short by an officer rushing towards them.

“Sir, we have a positive identification. The man fleeing in the car was caught on camera. It's Ricoletti, sir. It's Emilio Ricoletti.”

Sherlock stood immediately straighter, but Greg burst into dry laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“I'm very serious, sir. The match is undeniable.”

The sound that emerged from Sherlock was victorious and more than a little smug. Greg’s shoulders made a strange thing where they first sagged, and then perked up again immediately after.

“Who's Emilio Ricoletti?” John asked.

“Only number one on Interpol's most wanted list since the early eighties,” Greg answered, shaking his head. “What the hell is he doing kidnapping people in London? We thought the bastard was in China!”

“The plot thickens,” murmured Sherlock to John, but before he could question him about it Donovan opened the door to the Stauntons' room.

“They’re ready, sir,” she said, masterfully ignoring everybody else in the corridor. Mrs Staunton and her son followed her out and were shown to a room where they could rest while Mr Staunton was questioned. Greg promised the officer he'd be with them shortly, turned to Sherlock and crossed his arms in a clear challenge.

“Well?”

“I can't believe you're actually doing this,” Sherlock whispered furiously, twitching towards the door. “You need me. Ricoletti is involved. You can’t afford to let him slip away.”

“Honestly, me neither. But choose, Sherlock. Do you want this case? You’re right. With Ricoletti involved, who knows where this will lead us. You're welcome inside, but so help me I won't be stuck in your petty drama.”

In the end, it took Sherlock less than ten seconds to give in to the temptation. He huffed, and when that didn't work he tried a puppyish pleading look, but very soon he gathered his coat and marched in, head held high. The other one tried to follow but Greg turned him away firmly.

“No. No way. This is no place for you, Sherry, this isn't a game. Me letting _him_ in there is already a huge breach of the rules. You aren't coming.”

“But – ”

“No. Not going to happen. John?”

John looked through the open doorway, at Sherlock looming over the large table and the hunched little figure behind it, and then back at his lover. Sherlock looked pale and rejected in the green corridor, terribly small stripped off his coat and his position. He looked at John with pure pleading in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” John said. “I'm sorry, but I have to go in. I need to be with him, to step on his stupid toes when he needs it. I'm sorry.”

He fled into the room.

–

Mark Staunton was the kind of man who appeared raggedly stylish even in a shaggy beard and a dirty jumper. He sat behind the table, twitching at everybody entering the room while very visibly trying not to. Avoidant, anxious behaviour. John cringed, having seen it all before, too many times in Afghanistan and even afterwards. Mr Staunton had not had pleasant time being kidnapped, it seemed, despite his somewhat arranged descent into it.

“My saviour,” the spooked man addressed Sherlock, his mouth forming a shaky almost-smile.

“Actually,” said Sherlock, glaring at Lestrade, “it was my brother. Who's not allowed in here due to his delicate sensibilities. But no offence taken, I understand people make mistakes. I'll give him your greetings.”

“Oh,” said Mr Staunton. “I didn't realise – forgive me.”

Sherlock waved an imperious hand.

“We found your message,” he said, drawing a chair for himself and plopping down on it. “In the laptop. Very clever, that, I have to say.”

Mr Staunton's shoulders collapsed, making him look even more like a used mop. “Good. I was afraid he'd find it. He told me, if I said a word to Monica, there'd be – but that didn't happen. So it's all right.” He gave them a desperate glance. “I had to do something. He was threatening my family. He had these horrible photos, everywhere, with – and he told me not to touch them. I couldn't touch them. I had to look at them with him, every day, and he'd tell me what he'd done to those people, and he'd tell me what he could do to Monica, to my son, if I didn't comply with his orders. There were so many photos.”

Greg leaned forward. “What did he want you to do?”

“He gave me a computer. I worked on it every day, all day. I had an internet connection. I could have just sent her a message,” Mr Staunton said, a bit dreamily. “I wanted to, you know. I just wanted to talk to her. Just one little message. Would have taken thirty seconds. But he would have known. And there were photos, everywhere. Every surface, every wall, covered by those photos. So I didn't. I just did what he told me to.”

“Yes, we saw the photos,” Sherlock answered. “Some of them were pretty creative.”

Mr Staunton gave him a blank look, as if he didn't quite understand what was being said. “Creative. Yes.”

John shot Sherlock a warning look and suppressed a shiver. _Creative_ hadn't been his term of choice upon seeing the room where Mark Staunton had been kept captive. The man wasn't exaggerating when he said the photos had been everywhere. Graphic pictures of mangled bodies, some of them dead, some unlucky ones still barely alive, staring at the camera with unseeing eyes. Two whole forensics teams were working to recognise the victims in the upper levels of NSY right now. One look into the room had been all John had needed to know Mark Staunton was not meant to walk out of that house alive. Whatever it was Ricoletti wanted from him would have become his last act when finished.

Sherlock had called it gross, a word never before heard from those lips. John was inclined to agree, although a more suitable term would have been nightmarish.

And in the middle of it all, this one little middle-aged man in a worn jumper and dirty glasses, his face deathly pale and his fists bloodied from banging at the door, staring at the people on the corridor as if they were a host from Heaven.

“Is Monica safe?” He had been demanding. “Is Jacob safe? Are they safe? _Is my family safe?_ ” And he hadn't agreed to leave that hellhole of room until they had Mrs Staunton on the phone, assuring him that she was fine, that their son was all right, that the police was coming for them and everything was as it should be and he was free to go.

John wouldn't forget for a long time the hounded expression on Mark Staunton's face, the absolute denial of everything resembling hope for a happy ending. He had known where this had been heading, sitting alone in that cursed room day after day, working away on his computer.

“And what did he want?” Greg prompted again. The Met had taken the laptop and there was a third team assigned to it, but any information Mark Staunton could give them would help that work immensely.

Mr Staunton stared at the table, frowning and blinking. “Money. Misery. Power to choose who'd remain standing afterwards. He picked me because of my work, my connections, my location. He wanted an insider to aid him in his – invasion, he called it.”

“Of the stock market,” Sherlock added, and Mark Staunton nodded, a gesture that went on a bit too long, as if his chin had forgotten it was supposed to stop.

“Yes. He gave me a new target every day. Twenty-four hours to destroy them. He started small, but it didn't remain like that for long. I am sorry. Truly. For what I did.”

“No one is blaming you,” Sally interjected, but Mr Staunton wasn't listening. His eyes had gained that far-away look John knew too well.

“He would start every day the same way. Prep talk, he'd call it. He'd show me one of the photos in his – in his collection. Tell me everything about them. Their name, age, address. What they were wearing. How they begged. How they screamed. How they died. What he did with them, afterwards. And then he gave me my assignment and set the timer. He had photos of Monica and Jacob up on the wall as well. I was forbidden to touch them.”

He glanced up, but not at them. There was no expression whatsoever on his face. “I did, once, when he wasn't in the house. I touched her face. And it felt so – dirty. Like I'd betrayed her. I almost failed that one. He didn't notice, but I didn't try it again.”

“It's all right now. You're safe.”

“No,” said Mr Staunton, and suddenly his voice was made of steel. “I'm not. He ran away. He's out there, looking for me. You need to protect my family. You have to catch that monster. You _must_ protect my family.”

“We know who he is,” Greg reassured him. “We have footage of him escaping the house. He can't leave London, not when we know his face. The whole force is on the lookout for him. He will be captured. Your family is going to be safe.”

“Good,” sighed Mr Staunton, and the energy of the fight disappeared from him as fast as it had risen. “Don't tell me his name. I don't want to know. He's just a monster to me. Can I go to my family now? I miss them.”

–

John missed his family, too. Leaving Sherlock alone on the corridor had been the lesser of the two evils, but an evil still. And he wasn't there anymore. John looked hopefully around, but there was no trace of Sherlock's whereabouts.

Well, it wasn't as if he had expected him to stand still like a lapdog waiting for his master's return. But this meant there was a Sherlock Holmes roaming freely around the bowels of NSY, and one who didn't know just how many enemies he'd made along the way in there. A new worry rose in John. The people around him dispersed, everyone to their own tasks and desks, but there was no trace of Sherlock.

“Where's Sherrinford then?” Greg asked, apparently reading his mind for the second time today. All John could do was to shrug, aim for nonchalance.

“No idea. Sherlock?”

Sherlock, however, was done being helpful. The glare he gave the DI could have paled marble statues.

“How should I know? You find him, Lestrade. You drove him away.”

Greg gave him an incredulous look, apparently immune to sherlockian stares. “If you think there was a droplet's chance in hell I would have let him in there then you're damn well mistaken. What were you two even thinking, taking him with you in the first place? This is serious business, not a bloody babysitting service.”

“Sherrinford can take care of himself,” Sherlock answered, his voice haughty. “He's a Holmes, after all. He was the one who figured out the message in the laptop. You'd do well to thank him for that. He's not a child, Lestrade.”

John did his best to remain unaffected. There had been a touch of genuine pride in Sherlock's voice. He had given credit where it was due, and he had defended his troublesome double without any advantage to himself. Why were there tears in John's eyes? He blinked them quickly away.

Greg seemed surprised as well. “Oh. Is that so?”

“Yes,” John confirmed, fighting to keep his voice even. “He worked on it through the night. He was so intent on solving it we couldn't get a morsel into him. Sherrinford is more like Sherlock than you're ready to give him credit for. He's no precious flower. He won't break.”

Okay, he should probably shut up now before he'd say something really embarrassing like _amazing_ , or _brilliant_ , or even _the love of my life_. Yes, shutting up was an excellent idea.

Greg seemed vaguely disturbed. “Even so, I can't just let every damn civilian into crime scenes or interrogation rooms. There are guidelines. You two are already a huge exception. Not everyone here agrees with me on accepting your help. For him, my word’s final. He will not be allowed to play along. Doesn't mean I'm ungrateful though. He did save me from a beating.”

_Not allowed not allowed not allowed._

John's heart sank. That had been Sherlock's whole life, in the Other Place, and he had been overjoyed, simply overjoyed to finally feel accepted here. Of course, there still remained all the private work, like reclaiming the lost Turner, but once again the doors were slammed shut in his lover's face. Once again, he was the unwanted one, the one that dropped through the holes that didn’t even exist for other people.

But John understood Greg, too. Bringing Sherlock to a crime scene, any crime scene, had to be an unspeakable hassle. John had his medical expertise to lean on, and the added bonus of being Sherlock’s keeper. For the imaginary person that was Sherrinford Holmes – not a consulting detective, not a doctor, just a brother with a decade spent meditating in Tibet as his only claim to fame – there was no excuse.

And this was the one thing Sherlock would not share. Just like that, they were back at the starting point.

“There you are!”

Greg's relief was unmissable. John could not turn, could not look at his lover. The bad news would be too obvious on his face. Let him enjoy for a moment more.

“I just went to the loo. Finished, then? I hope he's all right!”

“He's fine, and I'm told that's partially down to you. Does it run in the family?”

“I guess it does,” said Sherlock, ice in his voice. “If you're quite finished, we'll be on our way, then. No need to show us out. Wouldn't want to use your precious resources for something as trivial as that.”

“Yes, fine,” answered Greg. “John, I'll see you tonight. We have stuff to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a sneak peek of the next chapter on my [Tumblr](http://www.tunteeton.tumblr.com/) every Friday. See you there!


	19. How Doctor John Hamish Watson Almost Got The Second ASBO Of His Career

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I want to thank my Silver beta for all her hard work. Silver, you keep me right.

In the end, John didn't have to be the one to break the news. They had barely hit the leathery back seat of the cab, he was nervously searching for the right words, and Sherlocks were already talking.

“You were right, there's one in there.”

“Do you agree with my assessment?”

“I think I do. He's the most likely one. Of course, nothing indicative on him or his possessions. But considering the timing, and the network he's built, and the photos on his desk, and that plant, it all makes for a rather neat picture, doesn't it?”

John had already got used to being dropped out of the conversation, but usually it didn't happen quite this fast. Usually, he was given a chance to feel dumb. Now it was straight to question marks. The explanation of what Lestrade had said could wait a minute.

“What are you two even talking about?”

“Oh, it's nothing,” Sherlock assured him. “Just a little task from Mycroft.”

And, well, apart from Sherlock's continuing freedom to choose to his own path this was the other red button John couldn't stand. Fucking Mycroft Holmes, having his fingers everywhere. Apparently even in New Scotland Yard.

Well, obviously he had spies in there. The damn man even had spies spying on his other spies! But why did Sherlock have to go around trying to find them?

“Now, don't you go punching anyone,” Sherlock told him. “He hasn't been in contact. It's fine. It's got nothing to do with me.”

No? It was Mycroft after all. He lived to screw Sherlock over.

“I don't like it.”

“You don't even know what it is. What's got your knickers in such a twist, now?”

“It's Greg,” Sherlock told his double. “He's having ideas about propriety again.”

“Oh?”

“He wants Sherrinford out of the cases.”

“Oh.”

For a moment, nobody said anything. Sherlock sat back ramrod straight and hands in lap, his face unreadable, the very picture of restraint. When he finally spoke, his voice was emotionless.

“That's unfortunate.”

“It's got nothing to do with you,” John tried, unconsciously parroting Sherlock’s words back to him. He felt wretched. It was a knife into Sherlock’s back, a rug pulled off from under his feet. “You were brilliant. He's worried about regulations, that's all. He’ll come around.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, not a whiff of distress in his distant voice. “I know everything about regulations. And how a good man just can't. It's not his fault. It's fine. I had thought – it's fine.”

But it wasn't. It was about as far away from fine as it could get. John had no idea what to say, no idea if his sympathy would be welcome. Probably not. Softly, he took one of Sherlock's cold hands between his own, an impotent act of alliance. They spent the rest of the ride in silence, each looking out of the nearest window.

–

If Greg even touched the Sherrinford issue John would march out.

–

Come to think of it, he might march out anyway.

–

This was not fucking Baker Street.

John stared at the house. They had left here not four hours ago, but already it looked different, somehow faded to his eyes. And apparently he was going both deaf and blind, because the fact that Sherlock had told the cabbie an address other than home had not registered at all. And neither had the route the cab had taken.

“Sherlock?”

“What Greg doesn't know won't hurt him or his career,” answered one of them coolly. “We have unfinished business here.”

“Actually, it can,” added the other one. “But not this time.”

There were two police cars in the yard. John shook his head, paid the cabbie and got out without protest. Sherlocks would handle it. There might be an ID brandished very soon. Maybe even more than one. They went straight to the door and pushed the bell, like decent people did. John waited patiently. Something horrible would happen any minute now.

The door opened. Sherlock nodded tightly.

“Detective Inspector Dimmock.”

“Ah, Mr Holmes. And Sherry! And Doctor Watson. Please come in. We have quite the mess in here.”

Okay.

This was unexpected.

But Sherry? When, no, how, how had _that_ happened?

John wasn’t given time to ponder on this newest development where apparently everybody knew Sherlock by his dumb alter ego. They were ushered inside and into the kitchen, which remained exactly like they had left it, the marks of violence undisturbed. Dimmock looked around in exasperation, talking as if them being on his crime scene was the most natural thing ever.

“He didn't leave anything obvious behind. No electronics, no notes, nothing of the sort. So far, we've got just the usual stuff – clothes, fingerprints, the rubbish. Seems like no one else came here expect for him and his prisoner. Where he might have gone, I cannot say.”

“That's why I'm here,” said Sherlock, and to John's surprise the young Detective Inspector actually smiled.

“Yes. I was hoping you might appear. And thanks for the last time.”

“It was my pleasure. And now, if you'll excuse me?”

All this politeness didn't sit well with John, but Dimmock just stepped out of the way and let Sherlock at it. He made a beeline for the kitchen counters, snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and opened the fridge.

“Take-away,” said the other one at once, peeking over his shoulder. “He likes Chinese.”

“He lived in China for years,” answered Dimmock, perking up a bit inside his too-large coat.

“But he's not really a fan of onion rings,” Sherlock muttered, looking at the dozen or so containers on the shelves. “Or housekeeping, for that matter.”

“Judging by the mold, some of those have been here for at least a month,” the other one pointed out. “How old is the trash? Why hasn’t he thrown these away?”

“When you’re busy destroying companies and terrorising people, cleaning out the fridge tends to take a second seat,” his double answered, rummaging through the lower shelves.

“Golder Star,” John read on the side of one the packages. “These are all from the same place.”

“I'll make the call,” Dimmock answered. “Maybe that gets us somewhere. Give me one of those things. They have a number on them, don’t they?”

Sherlock handed him a container and closed the fridge. Dimmock walked out of the kitchen, phone already in hand.

“That won't help, he's not that careless,” Sherlock muttered. “But if calling makes him feel useful and keeps him out of the way, it's already a win.”

John shook his head. This whole affair was too civil for his liking. “You just rang the bell. And he let you in.”

Sherlock grinned a toothy grin. “Yes. Beautiful, isn't it? But don't thank me. Thank Sherrinford.”

“I haven't done a single thing,” his double answered indignantly, and Sherlock sighed.

“No. Not _you_. Sherrinford. He’s a mean clubber, that one.”

John stared. “You are aware he doesn't actually exist.”

Sherlock's grin turned predatory. “Yes he does. In this house, in this context, he's a very real person. With networking skills, to boot.”

The young Detective Inspector returned with a frown on his face, still holding the half-empty container. “No luck there. They haven't had any deliveries to this address and couldn't remember anything special about him either. Couldn't remember the whole man, actually. I wonder if he’s paid them off.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Ricoletti is the Interpol's Most Wanted. A person like that either learns to be nondescript or ends up caught very fast. He wouldn't have had any deliveries. Probably walked there, quite likely had some sort of disguise or a helper.

Dimmock sighed. “Of course he did. Have you had any more luck here?”

“Not yet. But the kitchen is a great place to start. A person doesn't change their eating habits as easily as their address. I'd recommend you have someone watching the restaurant. Looks like he's been there several times a week. If he's careless you might catch him on his food run. Everybody needs to eat.”

“Yes,” John agreed, glaring at his scarily slim friend. “Everybody.”

Sherlock ignored him, his attention elsewhere. Dimmock nodded slowly. “But he knows we'll go through the house. He knows what's in the fridge. And he's clever.”

“All true. But do you have any better clues right now?”

He didn't. They continued their rummage through the kitchen, the living room and the bathroom, but it was clear that this had been a temporary residence only. The house had about as much character as an unused hotel room, down to the barest bathroom John had ever witnessed outside of an active war zone. Sherlock glanced at the stairs, but Dimmock shook his head. “My team's up there. It's under control, and I'd rather keep you out of their sight anyway.”

To John's utter amazement, Sherlock gave in gracefully without a fight. “I understand. And in any case, the living area is your biggest clue considering his whereabouts. Keep an eye on that restaurant, and call me if you uncover anything interesting upstairs.”

Dimmock nodded. “Will do, and thank you for your help. And Sherry! Next Saturday, same time, same place?”

John stared in horror. It all started to make sense now. “You were there too? Clubbing?”

Dimmock just grinned. “You should have been there, Doctor. You should have been there.”  
–

It had come to a point where he couldn't ask anymore. Whatever the show Sherlock had thrown that night had been, would be lost to John forever.

What kind of a club had it even been?

–

They were at home, and John was ready to leave for his lecture by Lestrade, and everything was awful. Sherlock took hold of both of his shoulders, looked at him with serious eyes.

“Don't let this morning cloud your judgement. Listen to what he has to say. It's important, John, very important, and _he_ doesn't know how to tell you that.”

John’s hands clawed into fists. A military nod, staring into middle distance. He could manage that, at least.

“I'm sorry.”

Sherlock kissed his nose. It should have been embarrassing. It wasn't.

“I know. We'll figure it out, John. Don't worry. You haven't failed me.“

He wasn't so sure about that.

–

Greg was very courteous about the whole thing. He waited until John was well into his second pint before even broaching the subject.

“So, about today.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay. This was it. He'd listen. He'd promised Sherlock he would listen.

“Yes?”

“I forgot to say. But thanks, for saving my hide from that beating. I would have acted otherwise, had I known who he was. Ricoletti, for god's sakes! The guy has been hiding, under a rock I think, somewhere in rural China, for the past decade or so. It's unreal that he would turn up in London.”

Oh. They were still talking about that. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. This was getting ridiculous. _He_ was getting ridiculous.

“Don't mention it,” he answered, still feeling wrong-footed. But really, this wasn't Greg's fault. Maybe he shouldn't mope quite so obviously? “I'm sorry we lost him there. This could be all over by now.”

Greg shook his head. “Now that we know he's here, every single cop in London has been alerted. The city’s riddled with CCTV cameras. He can't move a finger without being noticed. We found his car this afternoon. He must know we're after him now, but he won't make it far on foot and if he steals another vehicle he'll give away his location immediately. This could turn into the biggest case of my career. I'm happy we have Sherlock to help us. Which reminds me.”

_Okay, here we go._

“Wait a moment,” John interjected. “I need more beer for this.”

Greg gave him a bland stare. “I know what you're doing, and I'm going to entertain your attempts to postpone this, but we are going to talk about it. Well, _I_ am going to talk about it, and you're going to bloody well listen to what I've got to say.”

“Yes, I got it,” John sighed. “Just one more beer, okay?”

A magnificent roll of eyes was his only answer, and John escaped for the bar. Ten minutes later he was back, gingerly carrying a pint for both of them. By then, Greg had put a small paper folder on the table. It had rounded corners and was smaller than the numerous files John had signed after cases. Not an official one, then. Greg fiddled with its corners, his face clouded, until John gave him his drink and slumped down on his seat.

“Okay, shoot.”

Greg ignored the beer, crossed his hands and leaned over the table to get closer to John. It was a crowded place, full of people talking loudly over televisions. Still, John approved of Greg’s efforts not to shout his personal failings at everybody who cared to listen.

“I never really got what's going on between you and him. You know what I mean, he doesn't tolerate anybody for long. The clever ones leave before he has a chance to hurt them. But you aren't an idiot, and still you just stick with him. That first night alone, with the pink lady and him running to the streets, it would have been enough to drive just about anybody away. I'm being honest here, John. For the longest time, I thought you were a bloody experiment of his.”

“Experiment?” John asked, frowning. Greg shrugged, didn't even have the grace to look apologetic.

“How to manipulate people into friendships. Like sociopaths do. And I thought to myself, wow, he's really pulling that one off.”

John shook his head, wounded. “He needed a flatmate. I needed a flatmate. It's really not that complicated. You've spent too much time with Anderson.”

“Sure,” Greg answered, rolling his eyes. “John, I'm not a bloody expert on relationships. Just look at my poor family. And before the latest,” and he stopped to vaguely wave his hand at John's direction, a man resigned to the fact he didn't – and wouldn't – understand everything that was going on around him. “Before the latest I would have even believed you. I guess weirder things have happened. But I saw him when you were gone. And frankly, John, it makes me fucking angry that you – both of you – the sheer bloody obtuseness you're showing here.”

“Gee, thanks mate,” John answered, the last weeks running across his vision in bright technicolour detail. Greg didn't know, of course. But still that stung. “Always nice to hear one's efforts are appreciated.”

Greg didn't hear, or care. He drew the little folder close, looked around to see if anybody was near enough to see what it was he was holding. But they were sitting in a back corner, and while the place was noisy, no one was right next to them. Pleased, Greg slid a blank white paper out of the folder. John blinked. No, not a blank one, but a photo, printed on paper. He could just see the ghosting of the ink on the other side. Greg looked at it like it was riddled with smallpox.

“I was certain he would die. And I wasn’t the only one. His brother – I have never seen him so serious. It was not a good time for any of us. That's why I came, as soon as I heard you were back. I had to see him with my own eyes, see if he was better. And there he was, sitting on his chair like some bloody phoenix, I couldn't believe it.”

John listened with widening eyes. That was – yes, Sherlock had looked drained during the first days. He still did, actually, but he masked it better now. But John had been in shock, and trying not to die of pneumonia, and dealing with a hundred issues on top of that one, and somehow it had all slipped between his fingers.

But now he was thinking about it, and there had been so many almost-started conversations, cut short by one of the Sherlocks. They had been avoiding this. The bastards had actively misled him as soon as he was getting to the danger area! Not for the first time, his mind returned to the painfully arranged data on the wall, to the microscope and the newspaper tucked under the sofa. The sheer exhaustion in Sherlock's eyes, the drag of his steps.

 _He hasn't eaten_ , his lover had told him. _He hasn't slept._

Greg stared at John staring at him, nodded solemnly.

“I was absolutely positive. That if you were still missing after a month, we'd eventually have two burials to attend. I know he goes manic over the more difficult cases but that's nothing, fucking nothing, compared to what he was like when you were missing. The only bloody way to make him stop was to sedate the bloody bastard. And we did. And then he escaped his hospital room, twice for fuck’s sake. He's never been more vicious, not even when we weaned him off the bad stuff. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't fucking blink if he wasn't forced to. He did smoke – once he started he never went without one until we trapped him and knocked him out cold to get some fluids into him.”

And finally Greg flipped the photo around. It was Sherlock, of course, in a hospital bed. He seemed to be sleeping, but still he managed to look exhausted. The promised IV drip hang from its stand next to the bed, but so did something else.

“Morphine,” John whispered, horror clenching his throat, his pint forgotten. The gunshot. The fucking gunshot. Greg’s voice remained unchanged when he delivered the final blow.

“Did I mention he did all this while bleeding internally?”

The sound of the gun had been the last thing he could remember before the switch, and the one thing that had tortured him the most. Not knowing had been agonising. And so, when he got back he had made sure to find out what had happened. Except that Sherlock had never really answered him, of course. John cradled his head in disbelief, but Greg just nodded grimly.

“That bastard. I asked him. _I asked him!_ ”

Greg took a long sip from his pint. His eyes remained downcast when he spoke, his voice utterly neutral. Like it was the bloody weather they were discussing, or what they’d had for fucking lunch.

“There are other photos, of course. But they are more – graphic. Not something I'm willing to carry around or show to people without his permission. But what I'm saying here is, if you value your 'flatmate’s' wellbeing, you better not go disappearing again.”

“I wasn’t exactly given a chance,” John answered. Those photos, the ones he hadn't even seen, they would haunt his dreams, wouldn't they? That Sherlock would drive himself into such extremes – it was unthinkable. He groaned and drowned the rest of his drink. “Look, I can't say I'm grateful for this, but -”

Greg cut him short.

“Tell me, have you two ever done the naughty?”

The beer almost made a reappearance. “What!”

But Lestrade was serious. “No, really, John. Have you?”

“Me and Sherlock. Have you _met_ him?” John demanded, but Greg would not be diverted.

“I indeed have. And I have met you, too. That's why I'm asking.”

“No,” answered John, too horrified, too tired to argue. “No, we haven't.”

“Then you're an even bigger idiot than I gave you credit for,” Greg told him. “You two make me bloody despair. Get a grip, John Watson, and go home and fucking talk to your bloody flatmate. And don't you, either of you, show your faces in the Yard before you've solved this. I don't care how, I really don't want to know, never tell me, just solve it. I need more whiskey, my whole head hurts.”

Silently, John raised his hand to order him one. But Greg wasn't done, his whole outburst seemingly directed to the hapless now-empty pint he was holding.

“You bloody imbeciles. Consulting detective my arse. Go home, Watson, before I give you an ASBO for sheer criminal stupidity.”

It was a dismissal if John had ever heard one. He gathered his wallet and his coat and what was left of his wits and went.

–

He was so fucking tired of these shocks. It was as though he had angered some bored minor deity who now spent all their time tormenting his poor stupid soul.

His back was aching and his lungs rasped after just a few steps. It didn't matter, he needed to walk this off. His physician Jules would put him under house arrest if he saw him now, John had no doubt. After all, it made no sense whatsoever for him to be wandering the nighttime streets of London when he could have as easily taken a tube or a bus or even a cab home.

But he was so fucking tired of these shocks. It had to stop, something had to give, and if Greg was right it wouldn't be Sherlock.

What the fuck was wrong with the man? Starving himself, no, literally trying to kill himself, over John, and then refusing to even mention it?

John had asked him, he had, _he had_. John had asked him about the gunshot, the memory of which had followed him to another fucking universe altogether, jolting him awake at night and taunting him through the weeks. Sherlock had been shot. Sherlock hadn't been shot. Sherlock had been shot. He hadn't.

And there had been no bloody way for him to know. And then, finally, he had given up, told himself the comforting fantasy that no, of course that hadn't been the case. Sherlock was safe and well, solving cases like always, insulting people and being brilliant. That yes, indeed, John had succeeded in protecting his idiotic flatmate that one last time.

But John had failed, and Sherlock had been shot.

And nothing had been as John imagined it. Nothing had been the same. And Greg had been gearing up for a funeral. And Mycroft, in his office, looking at John straight in the eye and saying, _Having another incident of any kind would be very unfortunate,_ as if he was talking about spilling coffee on the fucking laundry.

And John, in his fatigue, in his confusion, in his damn shock, had let it all go. Not pursuing it, blinded by the thousand other things demanding immediate attention.

But the fact remained that Sherlock had been shot, and he had starved himself, and driven himself to a breaking point, just to find a trace of his lost flatmate. Sand and hair, all that was left of John Watson, analysed to death.

Who went to such lengths over a bloody flatmate? Who was willing to give his all, absolute everything, over a bloody fucking _flatmate_?

And then Greg's question, his voice serious, not a joke, not a joke. _Have you two ever?_

But it was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes the First, the one who had actually given that little ridiculous speech about heroes, and so many others about the whole sociopath business. The same Sherlock who had drugged him. The same Sherlock who had those very clear, very loud opinions about caring for other people. The very same.

John didn't realise he had groaned until the sound was already out. Two women walking past him turned their heads away, walked a little faster, a little closer to each other. John felt ill, and not because of the beer. Still, he had to stop and steady himself on the wall next to the sidewalk like a common drunkard. This was very much not good. Sherlock wasn't good. John wasn't good. They were both horrifyingly not-good. Because then, when Sherlock had driven himself into the ground, when Greg was bracing himself for the inevitable, when Mycroft was doing whatever the hell it was Mycrofts did anyway, something dark and sinister no doubt, John had turned up.

He had turned up, with another Sherlock from another universe, almost dead and utterly in love. With Sherlock. Next to another Sherlock, who had just – for John – because he – bloody _hell_. And there had been no explanations, no excuses, no questions asked or answered. Save for the one.

_So you just settled down with him._

_What else was left for me to do?_

He fucking hated the universes, all of them, messing with his life as if it didn’t matter, as if it was a fucking joke.

And then the kissing, and the bed thing that had somehow become a habit despite John's best intentions, and then the sex which Sherlock had of course deduced in a heartbeat. And he had just. Stepped out of the way. Courteous. Considerate. Those were two words that no living person ever associated with Sherlock Holmes. And yet he had, with a bare minimum of fuss, made the decision to remove himself from the equation.

Yes, Sherlock had bitched about his microscope and his dressing gown and his precious coat, but in the end he had just stepped out of the way. Told them he'd move out of 221B, in fact, just to make them happy. Just to let John Watson have his chance with a Sherlock Holmes, together, as he fucking explicitly stated himself he _preferred_ them to be. Just the two of them.

The realisation hit him very much like a brick in the face, and almost as gently.

It wasn't any easier to accept for a second time, that somehow the regal exotic creature that was Sherlock Holmes could fall for someone like him, but if there were any more evidence his life would turn into a picture book. With arrows in it, pointing at all the available evidence. And Mycroft as the narrator. You see, John Moron Watson, but you do not bloody observe.

He had to stop and breathe. It was that or fall face first into the gutter where he bloody belonged.

There was only one way to take from here, and it led either to glory or ruin. Considering what he was about to do, he had no doubts which. Even the grace of Sherlock Holmes, either of them, couldn't possibly stretch that far.

It would take twenty minutes to walk home and John was in no shape to be running.

He ran anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a sneak peek of the next chapter on my [Tumblr](http://www.tunteeton.tumblr.com/) every Friday. See you there!


	20. Interlude IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monday means a new chapter! Have you visited my [Tumblr](http://www.tunteeton.tumblr.com/) yet? Every Friday, you'll find a sneak peek of the next chapter there. 
> 
> And, as always, I want to thank my darlin' beta Silver for all her hard work.

The door to the noisy, fast, _boring_ outside world closed. Inside, two people gave each other tentative glances. How to start this particular conversation? It needed to happen, they both knew that. They both knew an awful lot of things. In a backwards way, the knowledge only made this more difficult.

”So.”

”Yes, indeed.”

”Do you reckon?”

”Yep. You?”

”Yes. I'm afraid so.”

They both reached for the violin at the same time, froze with hands almost touching.

”Be my guest.”

”No, it's fine. You take it. It’s yours, after all.”

The violin was left abandoned, and while the room offered ample room for a lone wanderer, the walls were cramped when there were two of them.

”You realise this is going to change everything.” It was pointed out to an unframed painting leaning against a wall, an offhand remark almost. The other one stopped on his tracks, unseeing eyes staring through the back wall.

”I thought we established that already.”

”He's going to tell him everything. In an uncontrolled environment.”

”You can't control him. Or his surroundings. Unlearn that. That's not what this is about.”

An exasperated sigh, fingers tugging at messy hair. The demons inside remained. ”I know. It's just -”

”I know.”

”- difficult. It's just so difficult. I'm not used to this. Is it like this all the time?”

A long silence. Then, remorse in a quiet voice. ”Yes. Although sometimes it's harder. Sometimes, they're going to get hurt and we can't help it.”

”Fuck,” a rare and very heartfelt one. ”I was right. You were right. _He_ was right. It's a mistake. A terrible mistake. Call him. We'll fake an emergency. He will come, he's come before. This can't be allowed to happen.”

”No.”

”But you said it yourself! It's either hard or harder. It's already hard enough as it is. What's the point?”

”He is the point! You know this. You know what happens to us when he's not here. It's time for this, self! It's been time for a long time now! _He_ is not omniscient, neither here nor elsewhere. We'll be all right.”

”But!”

”What's wrong?”

An exasperated sigh, then a slow twirl, a demonstration of all personal failings. Hands held away from the scrawny body, graceless.

”You see me. You know what's wrong!”

”But do you want me to be the one to say it aloud?”

The other one sat down, hands and neck hanging heavy. ”I'm a coward.”

”Yes. Yes we are. But he's not. I told you, Sherlock, it's going to be fine.”

”Moriarty!”

Almost a shout, that had been, aimed at the floor. Full of unvoiced terror, uncertain trepidation. Some instincts sat tight.

”We’ve dealt with him before.”

”Yes, but mine is more insane.”

A long silence, inward turned stare. Fingers caressing a titanium chain, reflex-like.

”I wouldn't count on that.”

”He promised me – burning. Burn him.” A whisper now. ”And he's completely off his cracker. I don't doubt his abilities.”

The other one crossed the room and knelt in front of the sitting figure. Palms on knees, grey eyes meeting their match.

”You're giving in to him. That's what he wants. For you to be afraid. He wants you alone and cowering, driving everyone away, only thinking of him. Jealous, that one is.”

A hoarse laughter, face hidden in hands. ”Well, he can congratulate himself. He's doing a splendid job.”

The kneeling man didn’t relent. “And then he wants you to go to him, voluntarily, gifting him your undivided attention. There mustn’t be a thought in your head that’s not about his majesty over you.”

A raw whisper, hands clutched tightly together. Not trembling, no. So much effort. “He has that already.”

”Self. Look at me.”

”I don't need a mirror.”

”I'm not your bloody mirror.”

Reluctantly, the sitting figure complied. A hand touched a shoulder, featherlight.

”Sherlock Holmes can take on James Moriarty and come on top. You see the proof right here.”

A fierce denial, pulling away from the touch.

”It's not the winning I'm worried about.”

”No. It's John. He'll come at you through him.”

A shrug, confirmation. Of course Moriarty would. Why change something that worked so splendidly?

”He already did. He knows it works. And it does, so help me. It does. I told you, this is a mistake.”

”And he knows you know. He's going to up his game.”

”This is supposed to make me feel better?”

”Of course not. This is supposed to make you feel. Logic will only take you so far. Some things in the world, self, cannot be explained through logic.”

A perplexed look. This was truly a new thought.

”Take Moriarty, for example. There's fear in him, and hate, and yearning. He wants so much, it's consuming him. At least mine did. Nothing rational about that. And now, John.”

”Don't. Not him. We don’t do that, not to John Watson.”

A searching look, followed by a shrug. A change of topic.

”Look, I can’t promise you it will be easy. It won't. But, self, I can promise you this: You won't mind. It's going to get worse before it gets better, and you won't mind one inch.”

”Why?” A genuine question, a little boy lost in the woods.

”Because that's what we are. And that's what he is. You already know how it is. We wouldn't be having this conversation if you didn't. And no matter how they try, they can't change that. No one can. Not Moriarty, not _him_ , not even us. Because that's in us. Delete the lies. You've carried them long enough.”

A snort. ”Did you get that from a book?”

A gentle smile. ”Sometimes, self, just sometimes, you'll find the one book that gets it right.”

The doorbell rang, stripping both faces clean of any expression.

”That’s not John.”

”Nor a client.”

”It wouldn’t be Lestrade, not when he’s out with John.”

”Mycroft wouldn’t bother ringing.”

”Mycroft wouldn’t _come_.”

”Mrs Hudson is inside, and even if she wasn’t, she’s not in the habit of forgetting her keys.”

”Then who?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next Monday!


	21. Everybody Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't even believe the mess we would be if not for my beta Silver. Just saying. She's mine, you can't have her. Go and find your own.

The lights were still on. It was well after midnight and the lights were still on in 221B Baker Street. John wasn't even remotely surprised. His lungs were on fire, but he had a key in his hand and the familiar door was right there. It couldn't open fast enough for him. All the shaking of his hands and arms was strictly due to exhaustion. Of course it was.

For a second, a blind panic engulfed him. What if he had skipped again? What if, when everything was about to be unveiled, the universe played another dirty trick on him?

Still he climbed the stairs faster than ever. Someone was playing the violin, a wandering melody that stopped as soon he opened the last door home. He recognised it, and that made his fearful heart sit easier in his chest. This was home. He rushed into the living room, bending double on the doorstep from the strain of the rush through the streets. Two heads turned to look at him, two pairs of grey eyes equally concerned, waiting for him. He heaved for a moment, until he was sure he could stand up without falling over immediately. Sherlocks waited, pale but patient. In the end, it seemed they always waited for him.

It was only then that he realised that there was a third person in the room, a diminutive figure sitting on the sofa, calmly, quietly. Another client, at this late hour? He swore under his breath. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Here he was, ready to finally pour his heart out, terrified and excited in equal measures, only to be confronted by another obstacle, another meaningless case.

He didn’t need any more fucking cases right now. Didn’t they have problems enough already?

Offended, he straightened his back and leveled a stare at the intruder. Really, Sherlocks should stop letting just any strays inside. Who knew what they dragged with them-

It was Li.

It was, without any doubt, a Li who recognised him, who looked at him with apology clearly written on her features. But that meant -

” _Fuck_.”

–

She looked exactly the same as John remembered her, although he had to admit those memories were hazy at best. Their earlier acquaintance had been very short and clouded by the fact that John had been through some serious shit less than ten minutes prior to it. But still, he remembered that self-assured stance, the set of shoulders that didn't bow to anyone's anger. Li had a weathered face and greying hair, but her eyes were quick and perceptive. Her presence here, of course, was impossible. That didn't seem to matter to her all that much.

_My understanding of the word_ impossible _might be a little screwed,_ John lamented to himself, and then it was time to shake her hand, and that was very material indeed. A bit tiny, a bit cold, but very real nevertheless.

”John Watson,” said John, and drew a deep breath. ”And Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes. It’s good to meet you. Again.”

Saying that aloud out here felt dangerous and even illegal. Li's face, however, didn't even twitch. Oh, but she was the one person who didn’t need explanations.

”It’s good to meet you too, Doctor Watson. As I’ve already told your friends, I have some urgent news. We have been waiting for you. Please, take a seat so we can begin. There’s a lot to discuss.”

Gingerly, John walked to his chair. He wanted to do so many different things right now, and none of them had anything to do with multiversal travel. Fuck the universe. Fuck all of them. He decided not to risk a glance at Sherlocks. Clearly, they had to deal with this first, whatever it was that this turned out to be.

Li waited passively while he sat down. Then she leaned forward, as if trying to reach over the table and the room, her dark eyes clouded and serious.

”The rules have changed.”

”I can see that,” answered Sherlock curtly. ”Explain.”

”They have changed even more than I thought,” said Li, looking at the two identical men, her face carefully neutral. ”This is unprecedented. I would like to speak with you two about this at some point. But not now. I have news.”

”So share it,” answered John, the suppressed anger making his voice rougher than strictly speaking it needed to be. Li didn't seem to care.

”After you two – disappeared, I was contacted by Mr Holmes. No, that's not exactly right. I was working for him already, had been ever since what happened in that flat. No, I was shouted at by Mr Holmes, personally. That's more precise.”

”He wants to find me,” Sherlock said, blunt and toneless. ”He would have dragged the entire Thames, and when that turned out to be useless, he came to you.”

And that was just the icing on the cake, wasn’t it? Would they have an irate possessive Mycroft from another universe on their hands next? John wanted to groan. He wanted to swear, and he really really wanted to scream.

What he did was sit very, very still and listen to what Li had to say about this newest mess they found themselves in.

”Yes,” Li confirmed. ”He wants you back, Mr Holmes. He was very adamant about that. He said he was willing to put aside his personal doubts and work with me to figure out the solution.”

In other words, fuck them all to hell and dance on the ashes.

”He lied, of course,” Sherlock pointed out, clearly thinking along the same lines as John. ”He already had your medical records, and when they didn’t make sense to him he next wanted your co-operation. My brother is not very good at changing his opinions. He doesn't have to be: the world will change itself to accommodate him rather than face his disappointment.”

”He did have impressive equipment,” Li continued. ”And a highly qualified team. We made very good headway in a short time.”

”And now you're here.” John was very proud of the fact that that had come out so civil. Mycroft was looking for Sherlock. Mycroft wanted Sherlock back. Mycroft planned to take Sherlock away from him. Mycroft, who in his weird superhuman station, was utterly unwilling and unable to comprehend the word 'no'.

As if on cue, Sherlock walked across the floor and planted himself in front of John's chair. John's hand went straight to his neck. Looked like they both needed a bit of support here.

Li nodded and took a little rectangle out of her purse. It was a metallic thing, covered in wires and buttons. She looked at it for a long time, a strange mixture of admiration and fear on her face.

”It's not finished. I doubt it ever will be, we simply don't understand it well enough. So I have to warn you, it is still quite unstable. Took me five tries to get it right, and I was in a controlled environment. But it's better than anything we've had before, make no mistake. It’s not make-believe any more. I’d meant to ask, Mr Holmes, if you wanted to try it,” and here John's fingers tightened on Sherlock's skin, ”but I see that would be unwelcome. So I won't.”

”I decline your non-offer,” said Sherlock, still speaking with that bizarre too-calm voice. ”Keep it away from me. I want nothing to do with it. Is it on right now?”

”No,” Li answered. ”Don't worry. I wouldn't bring it here if it caused you any danger. I can't turn it off, that's impossible, but it's dormant.”

”Dormant,” John repeated, eyeing it with suspicion. ”How does that even work?”

”Are you a particle physicist, Doctor Watson? No?” said Li. ”And neither am I. I’m just a hobbyist. So sorry, but no. I can't explain it. Suffice it to say it's very complicated, and common sense dictates it shouldn't work at all. Yet it does, kind of. But that's quantum physics for you.”

”A hobbyist with more firsthand experience than any so-called professional out there,” Sherlock muttered, prompting Li to shake her head.

”I’d rather not have that experience, Mr Holmes. It has made a right mess of my life.”

”What does it do, simply put?” asked the other Sherlock, the only one of them with any semblance of curiosity in his voice. ”As far as you understand it?”

Li sat silently for a moment, tracing the wires of the little machine with her fingertips.

“You have to understand, distance and dimension are two very different things. To cross distances, all you need is time. But it's not like that with dimensions.”

“What do you need, then?” Sherlock asked. “You're here. I suppose that means you figured it out.”

“Yes and no,” Li replied. “To cross dimensional boundaries, you need intent. I suppose you could also call it motivation, but it’s more tangible than that. This thing, it gathers that intent, or motivation, from the universe itself, and then fires it on a target. That target absorbs the intent and shifts accordingly. The intent doesn't have to come from the target itself, of that we're fairly sure. I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. I wish I could give you a better answer, but I'm afraid that's impossible. You already know the shift is instant and unpredictable. I'm afraid it is still very much so. Mr Mycroft Holmes was in the process of creating this device to facilitate it, but we haven't yet had a lot of success with it.”

“But you managed it anyway,” John insisted. “You have to know what you were doing.”

“Did you?” Li countered.

“It wasn't him,” said Sherlock instead. “It was me. And you're right. I didn't even realise it had happened until later. Very dispiriting, that.”

“But there has to be something,” John continued. “Otherwise we wouldn't stumble upon this so often. We have five recorded instances of people crossing over between here and there.”

“More,” Li reminded him. “You're forgetting my companions over there. They’ve made the trip as well, although none of them twice. But so far, the best we can do is watch for a pattern and guess. I wouldn't dare say we've solved it. After all, I did once before, and that didn't lead to anything good. Obviously I was wrong. I was not in any kind of distress this time. However, there's something very important I haven't yet told you. Two things, actually.”

”And what are they?”

”My original mission, as dictated by Mr Holmes.”

Next to John, Sherlock went very still. Li shook her head.

”Don't worry. I have abandoned it already. I only caught a glimpse of your life there, but I suspect I have enough to make an educated guess.”

”What was your mission?” John demanded. Li looked at him steadily.

”To find Mr Holmes here and fire the device at him, of course. Call it the ultimate test. You have to understand, Mr Holmes – Mr Mycroft Holmes – is very keen.”

John was on his feet, in front of his Sherlock, in a second. To his surprise, he was immediately joined by the other Sherlock.

”No.”

Li didn't move from her spot on the sofa. ”I told you already. You have nothing to fear from me. I have gone through an unwanted shift myself. I know what it is like, and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Mr Holmes cannot affect my decisions, no matter how – persuasive – he believes he is.”

”Calm down, both of you,” said Sherlock, still sitting on the floor like a child. ”We can trust her. You people here, you are devious. You say one thing and mean the exact opposite. Mycroft never learned that, because he never had to. He gave her a task and sent her off, certain that she would deliver. No doubt he used the Voice, never giving it another thought. Do you bother analysing breathing? It’s as natural to him as that. Tell me, Ms Bronner, was it difficult to get chosen for this particular mission?”

That brought an actual smile to her lips. ”Not really. That deviousness you mentioned might have had something to do with it.”

”Thank you,” said Sherlock, and the simple word eased John’s worries. He gave his friend a questioning look, and when he nodded too, they both moved out of the way. Leaving Sherlock open for attack like that made John feel queasy, but if he said they could trust her then so help John, he would. And Sherlock was already speaking again.

”You mentioned two things.”

Li's shoulders sagged.

”Yes. When I was first working with Mr Holmes on the machine, I overheard something I suspect I was not meant to hear. I asked him about it later, and he refused to discuss it with me.”

The dread John had forcibly suppressed just a second ago raised its head once again.

”What did you hear?”

”He had asked me a lot of questions about my home – I mean this place. He was very curious, if not quite willing to believe me. Turns out, maybe he was too curious.”

”Mary,” Sherlock breathed, and to John's horror Li nodded.

”He wanted to talk to her, too. And she accepted, on the condition that he let her go. Which he did. Then, he consulted her on the machine, trying to figure out the reason for her shift. That is the discussion I overheard.”

”Who's Mary?” Sherlock demanded.

”You've got to be kidding me,” John exclaimed. ”Mycroft is not that stupid.”

”The fat idiot,” Sherlock swore. ”Him and his fucking god complex. Of course he would have.”

Li shook her head. ”He's not stupid, no. But I doubt he fully understands us. He always thought he could control me, and her, and all the rest of us as well. Can't you see it? He even let me come here unsupervised. I'm afraid it was not the only mistake he made.”

Sherlock rose up, unable to contain himself anymore. ”He has always been able to boss people around, absolutely anyone he wanted, ever since his teenage years. Anything else is anathema to him. You don't plan for the impossible. So now Mary knows about the machine. We know how desperately she wants to get back here. Thank you for telling us this.”

”Who the hell is Mary?” Sherlock demanded again, looking from his double to John to Li and back again.

”It's worse than that, Mr Holmes,” Li answered, shaking her head. ”She stole one of the blueprints. Disappeared with it two weeks ago. Mr Holmes sent people after her, but I don't know if they found her or not. He refused to tell me. For all I know -”

”She might be here this very instant,” John breathed out. His hand was shaking, missing a gun, he suspected. Mary was obsessed with Moriarty, and Mycroft had just told him that Moriarty was back in town. This was a fucking nightmare.

Sherlock was looking at him impatiently.

”John? What's going on? Who's Mary?”

Right. Answer time.

”A psychopath,” John said. ”A criminal. A woman who shot you. A friend of Moriarty's. Not good company at all.”

”I was shot by the drug boss,” Sherlock corrected him. John sighed.

”Not you as you. You as him. She shot him, in the other place.”

”And she seemed to be the type to carry a grudge,” Sherlock continued. ”We have to be careful.”

”I'm sorry about this,” Li said. ”I came as soon as I could. I knew it was important for you to know. I – I was there. I saw what they did to you, Doctor Watson. I'm so sorry. I wish I had better news to tell you.”

That had the other Sherlock on his feet as well.

”What? What did they do to him? What's going on? Why is no one telling me anything?”

John hid his face into his palms. Here they went, then. Sherlock was given a trail, and he would never fail to follow through. Fuck.

”If you're here,” said Sherlock with a flat voice, ignoring his furious double, ”and possibly Mary, it will only be a matter of time before he gets tired of waiting. Mycroft dislikes legwork, but that doesn't mean he's incapable of it.”

”No,” John stated, not bothering to raise his head from between his hands. ”He won't have you. I will not allow it.”

Sherlock turned at him, and his fear made his words scorching.

”How did you plan to stop him? I told you, John. My brother is a living weapon. He always gets exactly what he wants. He always will. If he comes here and tells me to follow him back, even asks me nicely, I can't fight him. I’ll crawl behind him, right back to that hell, thankful of being noticed. And he won't be alone, of course. He'll bring his shadow army along, shoots you full of holes just to make a point. Don't think they would be averse to using force if words don't suffice.”

”It’s not quite that bad,” Li interrupted. ”The device takes a long time to recharge, weeks at this point. That's what I meant when I said it's dormant right now. Transporting more than one person at a time is practically impossible, and they aren't expecting anybody to come back before at least a month has gone by.”

”What about crafting a new one?” Sherlock asked.

”It would take very select materials not readily accessible to even Mr Mycroft Holmes. Also, the first charge takes even longer. We're talking seven weeks minimum. The sources of intent have to be located and tapped into. It's not like oxygen, found equally everywhere.”

”So you don't just plug that into an outlet.” John peeked at it, suspicious. He knew it was just his imagination, but the device seemed malevolent and somehow predatory. He wanted it out of 221B as soon as possible. Li smiled, apparently unaffected by the monstrosity sitting in her lap.

”No. You take it somewhere where a lot of people concentrate, preferably with strong emotions. A football match would be ideal, or maybe a hospital. And then you just let it sit there, for as long as it takes.”

”It feeds on suffering,” Sherlock whispered. Li shrugged.

”And euphoria. And love. And mania. And every other emotion you can think of. It's not particular, and turns out there's a lot of energy in sentiment. Except that is, of course, an oversimplification. We are talking about quantum physics, after all.”

Li stood up and slid the little machine back into her purse, as though it were a regular phone and not something that had the potential of destroying John's whole world.

”I think I've bothered you enough for the night. Here's my number in case you need something. And I'd really appreciate that chat, Messrs Holmes.”

Sherlock took the offered piece of paper. ”What are you going to do next, Ms Bronner? I'm aware this isn't easy for you, either.”

Li froze. ”I really don't know. This place is my home, but I've been away for so long, not to mention I’m legally deceased, it doesn't feel like a home anymore. My family, I really don't know if I could – My case is the opposite of yours, Mr Holmes. I think I'm going to go back.”

”I see,” said Sherlock, and his voice was soft. John shivered, remembered once again that unreal feeling of the first days. Everything had been wrong, and he hadn't fit anywhere, nor understood anything. It was nauseating, being separated from your own life like that. Suddenly, he felt a lot of sympathy for this old woman who had truly lost everything she'd once had in life.

”Visiting the grave might help,” he said quietly, and Li looked at him with tired eyes. Sherlocks did, too, and John suppressed another shiver. He was so not looking forward to this conversation.

Li put her coat on and shook their hands.

”I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes. And I'm sorry I had to bring you this news.”

”We’re sorry, too,” said Sherlock, and then she turned around and disappeared down the stairs, her steps slow but firm. John closed his eyes. Whatever would happen next, he knew he wasn't ready for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you visited my [Tumblr](http://www.tunteeton.tumblr.com/) yet? Every Friday, you'll find a sneak peek of the next chapter there. See you next Monday!


	22. No More Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silver is the best and kindest beta and all my own. Also, very understanding when it comes to panicking writers annoying her at all hours. Very much appreciated!

What happened next was tea. He really should have known. It appeared next to his elbow on a little tray, placed on the table by careful, silent hands. John didn't open his eyes, but somehow the mere promise of the tray made him sit marginally easier. As long as there was tea in the world, and someone to boil the water, all couldn’t be lost. Mycroft and Mary and even Moriarty could all go and rot in Hell for the moment. Now, he’d have some tea. Well, at least he’d think about it.  


”You have a lot of explaining to do,” said Sherlock's voice, carrying from the kitchen, and John sighed. All thoughts of comfort disappeared. Of course they had explaining to do. Of course he did. When didn't he? He needed a notebook. The John Watson Book of Issues. No, scratch that. He needed a series.

”Shoot.”

Only silence followed. No, not silence. Sherlock was moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. What was he doing? John peeked under his heavy lids. The chair opposite his own remained empty. So they were both in there, preparing something.

Steps behind his back, coming closer and then stopping.

He expected questions about Li, or Mary. Instead, Sherlock's voice, barely controlling the anger beneath, took up something else entirely.

”What did they do to you?”

He didn't have time to formulate a satisfactory yet avoidant answer before another voice cut in.

”Can't you see he's exhausted?”

Sherlock snorted, slammed a plate next to John’s elbow. A sandwich.

They had made him a fucking salmon sandwich, with goddamn dill on top. This was actual life. This was something that was actually happening right now.

”He's always exhausted when we do this. Come on, John. Don't be a coward. What did they do to you?”

He was not a fucking coward. He eyed the sandwich furiously. Was it poisoned? Probably not. Of course not. Sherlock walked over to his own chair and sat down, elbows on knees, staring at him. Daring him to keep silent.

Everything in this room mocked him, the sandwich included. And he had been on a mission too, earlier. Still was. Fine. Out with it, then.

He bit a huge mouthful out of the bread and chewed vigorously. What had they done to him there, in the other place? What hadn’t they? He swallowed.

”They tricked me into a car where we had a nice little wrestling match. Too bad she had brought something extra, and it ended by her sedating me. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a chair, tied to it I should say, with this big guy Sebastian in the room. He had knives. Lots of knives. He was very good at using them. Took pride in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had named them all. Something silly like Lucy or Nugget.”

He recognised this exercise, it was something Ella had urged him to try many times. Talk it out, she’d say in her professional office, with her professional face on, leaning towards him as if it mattered to her on some non-professional level. He had always refused. What good could talking do? He was still shot. He was still useless. He was still broken.

He sniffed. Ella knew nothing. He’d bet she had never crossed dimensions or had a manic criminal mastermind after her. She probably didn’t even need to deal with Mycroft. How simple and forgiving could a person’s existence be? What was John even talking about? Oh yes, the knives.

”They had put a gag in my mouth to keep me from screaming.”

He could taste it now, the vile thing. It tasted of sweat, blood and vomit. He couldn't breathe. His mind went hazy around the edges, and darkness loomed right behind his left shoulder, but his mouth kept on going, producing more words. So many words.

”He didn't have to hurt me. But he did, because he could. I didn't want to see him, or the knives either. So I looked at the carpet. It had stripes. Yellow, green and red. Funny, that. I thought I'd forgotten the carpet. It had a dirty mark on it. Blood, I suppose. Not mine, though. Or I guess it has more marks now. Paying attention became quite difficult.” He laughed at himself. Stupid Watson, not even able to remember the carpet. ”He was quite thorough, you see. I wonder if that carpet exists here. I’d quite like to burn it.”

He sat in silence for while. Every single scar on his body was aching. Sherlock had counted them, but he couldn’t remember how many there were. Just another thing he failed at. Nevertheless, all of them hurt.

”It came to that because Mary wanted to go home. She thought I could take her there. Fuck, I don't even know where her home was. I don't know if she was from here, or some other place entirely. But she knew Moriarty, and she wanted to go home. So she told Sebastian to hurt me. She sat in my lap, in that chair, and told me he would. And I couldn't help her, even if I would have wanted to.”

He raised his head. Two pairs of grey eyes stared at him, cats transfixed by a shiny new toy.

”I didn't want to help her. I was afraid you were dead. I loved you. I couldn't leave you. I couldn't be with you. I couldn't do any fucking thing at all. I missed you so much, even when you were right there. I didn't want to hurt you. I hurt you every fucking second. There was so much blood. There's an average of 5 litres of blood in the human body, did you know that?”

Sherlocks nodded, an identical, involuntary spasm of a movement. Had he said too much? He couldn’t remember that either. The John Watson Series of Issues ran too deep.

”I'm tired of bleeding.”

”Me too,” said Sherlock, and it was absolutely irrelevant which one it had been. Or had it been both of them? He wasn’t sure anymore. ”Me too.”

–

He sat and contemplated his tea for a moment, until long fingers took it away and replaced the cup with something slimmer, something made of glass and filled with golden liquid. Then John sat and contemplated that, until his heart beat steadily and his mind was his own again. Damn Ella, but she might have had a point after all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt less clouded or lost, though more exhausted.

Or maybe there just was enough threat in the air with Moriarty, Mary and Mycroft all piling up on them like some unholy trinity of malicious intent. But those three had stolen enough of tonight as it stood. Everything that Greg had told him still remained unaddressed. It was high time for Sherlocks now. He put the glass carefully back on the table. No way he’d let them think it was the alcohol talking.

They were still sitting quietly with their hands in their laps, legs almost touching on the narrow sofa. Their faces were serious, their shoulders drawn tight. Two men in dark suits, almost mannequins in their eerie steadiness, more identical than any pair of twins, both of them with their heads bowed low. Still, it was easy to tell them apart now, even without the added help of the tags. It had to do with how they breathed, John suspected, how the tension gradually eased off their features. His Sherlock was calmer, more trusting, less apprehensive. John loved him fiercely. That was a fact and needed to be addressed as such. It was imperative that no doubt of his feelings be left lingering in this room.

"I love you," he declared, and they twitched, both of them, peeking at him from under those untamable curls. "I love you as you are. I love you as a person with the exact life you have had. You aren't a shade, you aren't a mirage, you are real and singular and amazing and I love you. So you can put out of your mind all the thoughts of him snatching you back there. It’s never going to happen as long as I breathe."

One pair of eyes brightened even as the other clouded over. John shook his head. This was more important. This had to be done first. Because he realised he had never said it as clearly in this room, in this place. In the other place he had, yes, but that had been different, so completely different that such comparisons were meaningless. He had been a fool. A stupid, embarrassed fool. A coward.

Well, that was about to end now.

"I am so sorry I haven't said it before. I should have. I should tell that to you every single day. And if, after all that I'm about to do, and what I've already done, if you still want to be mine, I'll own you. I'll own you until the end of the time. You shall be mine, every brilliant sharp shard of you, for as long as you wish, and I shall be ridiculously proud of you. Do you understand what I’m telling you?"

Said and done. Now to wait for the first verdict of the night. When had he got up from his chair? Here he was, standing in the bloody parade rest of all things. Hands behind back, chin forward, lips firm. No matter. It was suitable for the situation. John Watson, reporting to service. Sorry for being late.

Sherlock got up as well, but there was nothing army-like about him. Instead he looked a bit wild with his huge eyes and limbs that didn’t quite know where to go. He crossed the room with shaking steps and collapsed down in front of John, a slow vertical shiver that started at his shins and travelled upwards even while he himself was going down. His knees hit the floor loudly and John flinched. That had to hurt. But then Sherlock's hands cupped John's own knees, kneading like a kitten, and his face, stripped and artless, turned up towards John. There were tears in his eyes. John brushed them away. His Sherlock should never cry.

"Yes, sir," Sherlock whispered, and his voice was certain even if his body wasn't. "I understand, and I accept."

"Don't be so sure yet," John told him, very aware of the irony of their situation. "I'm going to be a right arse now. Stop me if you need to."

Mutely, Sherlock shook his head and let go of him. Of course he knew, of course he'd be a step ahead of everybody else. John let his fingers linger a moment on Sherlock's cheek. The man gave him a minuscule nod. Fine. On with it, then. He drew another deep breath.

"And you," he turned towards the other Sherlock who was still on the sofa where he had followed this exchange with uncertainty and confusion. "You are a fucking idiot."

Sherlock backed into the cushions, but his voice was as sharp as ever. "The majority disagrees with you about that."

John advanced on him like a tiny but very determined bulldozer. Looming over the sofa, he snorted.

"The majority knows shit."

"And you do?"

"You should know it by now, Sherlock. I'm actually pretty damn smart."

"He is," confirmed his lover from the floor. "We do well to remember that."

And now John was so close he didn't even need to lift his hand to touch Sherlock, so he did. Warm simple skin, lingering just there under his fingertips. He moved a wayward curl away, unveiling Sherlock’s pinpointed pupils that stared at John in terrified fascination.

"Take off your shirt."

Sherlock made a very good impression of a mole burrowing into the pillows.

"What?"

"You _were_ shot, Lestrade kindly informs me. I need to see, I'm losing my mind over it. Take off your shirt, you prick."

”But -”

”I know what you look like. You have no need to be embarrassed. Fuck it, Sherlock, I know what you _taste_ like. Take off your bloody shirt.”

Sherlock simultaneously blushed and tried to straighten his back, which was difficult in his current position. "That’s unfair! And you were cut. What about that?"  
"I wasn't," John told him, his voice level. Total honesty, that was the new word of the day. No more lies, no more omissions. "I was tortured. I just spent half an hour telling you that. Didn’t you listen?"

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath was the only sound that followed that statement. John shrugged. No time for any of that now. No time.

"Take off your fucking shirt before I rip it off. I'm serious, Sherlock. I’m trying to move things forward here."

John, very intentionally, lowered his own gaze to Sherlock's lips. A very quick, very nervous tongue darted out to wet them. They glistened for a second, stupidly kissable. Not yet. Important stuff first. Why was the stubborn bastard still wearing his shirt?

"John," said Sherlock, his voice uncertain and his eyes wild. "You've got the wrong one. I'm not him. John. John!"

"No," John answered, brushing his finger over those soft lips. "I haven't. And you aren't."

Sherlock shook his head, flat against the pillows. He opened his mouth to speak, and warm puffs of breath enveloped John’s thumb. "I don't understand."

John sighed. Sherlock was a blind idiot, and he loved him so very very much.

No, they both were blind idiots. Had been. Partially still were. Or mostly. Whatever. Was this what Sherlock felt all the time, this burning need to explain everything to an uncomprehending audience?  

"You self-sacrificing prick! I can't believe the lengths you've gone to keep me in the dark. You'd lie for me. You'd bloody die for me! So why can't you just let it out? Tell me the truth!"

"What truth?" Sherlock's eyes were huge, his voice mumbled, and if John pressed any harder his thumb would slip _inside_. Not good. Not yet. He took a step back, drew a loud breath. It was too much. There was still stuff to do.

"Sherlock Holmes, take off your fucking shirt right this very second. Please."

Behind him, fabric was rustling, then dropped to the floor. Sherlock froze, his hands over buttons, his gaze locked past John.

"Not you," John sighed. "Although you shouldn’t think I don't approve. But you, go on."

Little by little, as through great effort, the shirt came off.

Sherlock's chest was unmarked. Thank god for small mercies. John closed his eyes for a second, bracing himself.

"Where is it?"

Like a petulant child, Sherlock pointed at his left arm.  
His left arm, where Mary had shot him, exactly there, the mark was just the same what the fuck what the fuck _what the fuck_?

"I don't know John, you tell me."

Had he spoken aloud? Apparently he had. But they couldn't go there now, this wasn't finished. This also wasn't right.

"No," John said, his brain already way over its capacity. There had been something more. "Bleeding internally. Lestrade said you were bleeding. The morphine in the hospital. Where. How. Show me."

"Oh that," Sherlock answered, and sounded like he was talking about last Saturday's weather. "It's nothing. He just kicked me a couple of times. Ruptured a lung."

John felt like hitting something, but punching Sherlock was out of the question. "The fucking bastard," he swore. "He shot you. He kicked you until you broke. He would have killed you. I'm going to bloody end him. Where is he?"

"Um, John," Sherlock answered, confused now. "You already did. He's very very dead. Don't you remember?"

That made him blink. No, he didn't. He didn't remember at all.

All those dark nights, in the other place, spent in mourning and regret. And he had already had his revenge without knowing it. The room went black for a second, but Sherlock’s shoulder was right there to steady him.

"You didn't know," Sherlock said, voice full of amazement. "You went away, and you never knew you'd saved me."

He blinked and blinked and blinked until the world came back to focus. There was a half-clad Sherlock Holmes in front of him, staring up at him in wonder and apprehension, and another one apparently behind him, and only one acceptable way to go forward from here. This was the moment, the final verdict. No use wasting more time.

Which seemed, weirdly, to have frozen in place. John knew it was his imagination, but everything in the room, every nook and corner and dusty bookcase, stood still and waited. So did he. So did Sherlock. Forcing his body into action felt like an enormous task.

“I shouldn’t be scared of this anymore,” he whispered, half to himself and half to the waiting world. He had been here before. He had done this before. He knew exactly what awaited. Yet he hesitated.

Sherlock frowned at him. He had to know! The most observant man in London couldn’t be this oblivious to what he had right in front of him! And still, the questioning voice uttered a single word: “John?” 

"I'm going to kiss you now," John told him at last, even though it really should have been evident without further fanfare. And for some reason, just saying it aloud broke the spell. He could move again. And god help him, but he would. "If you're absolutely, positively sure you don't want that, tell me. But tell me now, Sherlock Holmes, because I think I've solved it. I've solved the case."  
"I, what," Sherlock stuttered, and it really wasn't a question. It also wasn't a 'no', and that was all John wanted to hear.

"Your fucking heart," he answered, and then Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and John bent down and swallowed the little 'oh' that escaped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to check my [Tumblr](http://www.tunteeton.tumblr.com/)! Every Friday, you'll find a sneak peek of the next chapter there. See you next week!


	23. Kissing Sherlock Holmes, vol. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, it's Monday again! Once more, I need to thank my Silver beta for the very good work she does correcting the flow and grammar of everything I spew out. All hail Silver!

It was simultaneously the very same and completely different from kissing the other one. Yes, the physique was identical, as was that lovely cupid's bow John found he still couldn't resist licking. Those cheekbones still begged for his fingers' gentle caress, still were eager to go wherever he led them. And Sherlock tasted just as he should – dry saltiness and a hint of marmalade, his sharp intake of breath whispering over John’s lips in a very familiar way. But the mentality, the experience behind the body was very different, and John could only look back at those times he had been unsure which man had been which and marvel. Because now that he had Sherlock right here where he wanted him, he knew there couldn’t have been any doubt. This surprise, this petrification, couldn’t have been hidden. Sherlock wasn’t that good an actor, not in the matters of the heart.  


Because he stayed completely still, hands kneading the sofa’s cushions, only his quick breathing betraying the storm that was raging inside. His mouth under John's own was rigid and unresponsive. But he wasn't pushing John away, and he did allow John to tilt his face into a better angle without a protest. He clearly was there with him, just more an observer than an active partaker.

It flashed through John’s mind that this might be Sherlock’s first kiss, and if that was the case he was doing much better job than John himself had done with his. Granted, he had been thirteen and panicked, but still. 

But in the case that this indeed was Sherlock’s first experience in kissing, John decided to make it as good for his friend as possible. He knew exactly where to tickle the corner of that petrified mouth, how to suck at that lower lip, how to thread his fingers into the soft hair for the maximum effect. Maybe his advantage over Sherlock was a bit unfair here, but nobody was complaining. And then he heard it.

A low moan, raising deep from Sherlock's chest. And soon an echo of it, the same low lion rumble, this time originating from somewhere behind him.

That gave him pause. That, he had not expected. But there was no time for that now, because the man in front of him, the love and despair of his life, was slowly coming back to life, heralded by that quiet sound that slowly faded away. John nipped at his lower lip again, and still again. And then it opened for him, just a fraction. Enough to dart his tongue inside, and -

"Oh my god," said Sherlock. "Do that again."

What?

The man being kissed remained silent and mostly unresponsive, his head tilted towards John and his eyes closed. He looked very kissed, and still very kissable, and it was a struggle to look away from him. But Sherlock – his Sherlock, carrier of his tags and owner of his heart, was much readier to take part in the unfolding events than John had thought he would be. He scrunched his eyes shut. A bit readier than he would have preferred, actually.

Leave it to Sherlock to interrupt John while he was kissing – Sherlock. Somehow.

But Sherlock was right there, standing behind his back and very insistent on making his point, hands on John’s shoulders. And well, it wasn’t as if John didn’t want to stare up at him. He always did. It just was that he was in the middle of something, and that something was getting a tad restless under his fingers.

”Dammit Sherlock, I’m doing something here. Can’t this wait?”

The fingers on his shoulders tightened, meaning it couldn’t. Of course it couldn’t, it was Sherlock after all, but then again, what followed also wasn’t what John had expected. Quite the contrary, in fact. Sherlock pushed him forward, towards his double, and spoke with dark intent in his voice.

"Kiss him. Kiss him right now. With your tongue. Like you did before. Stop wasting time."

And well, it was exactly what he wanted to do anyway. So John decided to leave questions for later and just do as he was told. He moved his hands away from Sherlock’s face and against the wall behind, because now there was this monster pushing into his back and the last thing any of them needed was a collision of teeth and elbows.

This time, Sherlock's mouth opened a hair's breadth more, which John took as a welcome. He explored a little further between those unsure lips and oh joy, was that a tongue hesitatingly meeting his own?

Sherlock pressed against his back, pushing John even closer to the man in front of him. Long fingers tangled into his hair, kept his head in place. Something hot and hard and unquestionably erect pushed at his arse. The voice whispering into his ear had a fervent tone to it.

"Oh. My. _God._ Bite his lips. Make me feel it."

And okay, while that sounded very good to John it also was a bit extreme, given Sherlock's non-reactions. So he pushed back, stepped away from Sherlock and into the warm chest of another one. His head was swimming a bit, and he had that perfect just-kissed tingle on his lips, but this needed sorting out.

"No. What's wrong with you? Can't you see he's overwhelmed? What if he doesn't like it?"

A very clear, very intentional erection was re-introduced to his back. "Oh, he likes it well enough," Sherlock answered darkly. "Stop being so chivalrous and kiss the man."

"John," said a little, breathless voice. "Please do that again. Please do as he says."

This couldn’t possibly be real life. At least, not his life. He was going to be in _so much_ trouble. But well, if they were both insisting –

This time, he knew he had permission. Well, he had known it before, too, but this time it was vocalised. But this position they were in was rather awkward, with John stuck between Sherlock and the sofa containing the other Sherlock. He hesitated just a second, enough to let all his pretenses go, and climbed into his friend’s lap. If it was worth doing, it was worth doing well, and that meant full frontal contact. No secrets here, Sherlock. Feel what you do to me.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, stunned and dark. He stared up at John and opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out. Maybe it was the erection pressing against his stomach? Or maybe it was just the turn this night had taken. Anyway, John wanted to make everything crystal clear here. He felt happy, invincible, on top of the world. He might have been drunk. Was he drunk? He couldn’t tell.

”Yes, I’m sitting on your lap,” John told him helpfully and a little bit giddily. ”If you ever tell a living soul, you’re going to regret it. And now I’m going to kiss you again, since all three of us agree that that’s an excellent course of action. Unless you’ve come to another conclusion?”

Sherlock blushed a pleasing crimson colour. It took him a while to find his voice, and when he did it sounded alien, hoarse and dark. 

”Me? No! Not at all. Please do. Be my guest.”

”That’s my good boy,” John muttered out of habit, and _both_ of them moaned, and he almost came to his pants there and then. Oh _Lord_.

” _Fuck_ ,” he swore, and then his hands were behind Sherlock’s head, pulling him closer, and he descended on his mouth in a much more savage manner than he had planned. Sherlock couldn’t be fucking serious. They couldn’t be fucking serious. _Both_ of them? He was well and truly a dead man.

Sherlock's mouth opened readily under his this time, and when John took his lower lip between his teeth and sucked, teeth running over the sensitive skin there, the following moan could probably be heard all the way down on the street. Soon it was joined by another one, echoing from behind John's back. The erection made another appearance, securely slotted against John's back. There were fingers twisting into his hair, legs on both sides of his back. He had never felt more thrilled, or wanted, or unreal. The feeling had to be shared.

"We're all bloody nuts," he muttered into Sherlock's mouth, because this? Had not been how he had thought this day would end. Hoped, yes, but actually believed? No way. Who did this?

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, apparently. And Sherlock Holmes. And oh, God, now that there was a hand cupping him from behind he was going to physically _die_.

"Shut up and kiss me," and he wasn't even sure which one it was, or if it was indeed both of them in stereo and _fuck_ , they were going to ruin him they were they were they already had.

"I am kissing you right now," he answered, fervent and earnest and just slightly out of breath, and that _had_ to be a tongue, so he sucked at it the way he had learned Sherlock liked the best. The reaction that drew from both of them was immediate and satisfying, so John proceeded to do it again.

"You taste like beer," said Sherlock, slurred and kiss-drunk, and John smiled straight into his mouth.

"Deduce, deduce. I was in a pub, remember? Beer tends to happen there quite often."

"Greg," answered Sherlock, and now his voice sounded troubled, more like his own. "What did he say?"

John pulled back, into the ready embrace of his lover. Kissing was great, but this was just as important. Sherlock had asked, and by heavens Sherlock would learn the truth. "What do you think he said?"

”He told you about me while you were gone.”

”Yes he did, you huge idiot. Why didn’t you tell me? You could have just told me.”

"You two can't be serious," his Sherlock complained, wrapping himself around John's midsection like a particularly insistent octopus. "This is when you finally decide to talk? Now? Like this?"

John took hold of his left hand and guided the long fingers to his lips, kissed them one by one. "No time like the present."

Sherlock's eyes followed the gentle apology in blatant fascination. When John was finished, he raised his own hand, slid it over John's. The invitation was obvious, and John was happy to comply. Sherlock blushed a charming pink, quite an achievement since he already sported a rather red countenance.

"All those times when you were watching," John said slowly, testing his hypothesis as he moved from finger to finger. "I thought you were disgusted. Or uncomfortable, at least."

"It was never," said Sherlock, as transfixed as a cat on his fingers whispering against John's lips, "never about not wanting it."

John hummed in response. He had an important task to finish, this was no time for words. Sherlock's voice was small when he continued, as if unsure if this was an acceptable thing to say or not.

"No, it was about wanting it too much."

John groaned, clasped Sherlock's hand between his palms. It felt good and familiar there. Of course it did. "We've been right idiots, both of us, haven't we?"

"So glad you asked," answered Sherlock-behind-his-back darkly. "Yes indeed, you have. Now, if you don't mind, could we move this discussion to the bed?"

_The damn bed._

He couldn't stop kissing Sherlock's hand, nuzzling it against his cheek. But the bed. This morning, some twenty-two hours, or a lifetime ago, came to mind.

"You weren't trying to just reach the other side," John stated, so sure of the answer he didn't bother to make it a question. "We are going to talk about that later. That, Sherlock, was very bad manners indeed."

Some of the familiar fire was rekindled in his friend's eyes. "And bringing back a domesticated clone of me was?"

"I'm not domesticated, I'm submissive. It's second-grade stuff! Do your research."

Apparently, that word carried the same sort of connotations for Sherlock as it had for John, because he startled noticeably and gave John an alarmed look. His fingers around John's palm tightened.

"I'm not into that."

Okay. One more truth for tonight. John drew a deep breath.

"Whatever you're thinking about, it's not that. It's not Irene stuff, okay?"

"Well it is a bit," his lover commented, dead set on digging even deeper a hole for all of them.

"How," John started, because it was nearing three o’clock, he had been up since five and kissed two men tonight and the day was just not about to end. "How do you know about Irene?"

"I do read your blog," Sherlock told him, and the 'obviously' hung so low between them it almost demanded its own space. "And for your information, she seems really poor at her job. How she secures any clients is beyond me."

"She says she knows what people like," answered the other one.

"Well, I don't like being blackmailed, or abused." This discussion was fast going into places John wasn't at all sure he was ready to visit. And, sure enough, Sherlock's voice gained an approving purr as he continued.

"Well, actually, it depends on the type of abuse, and who is doing it. John is _very_ good at mental games, as you undoubtedly already know."

He had no idea which one of them blushed more, but there was no way he could meet Sherlock's eyes just now. Which meant either staring down at his nipples or closing his eyes, bringing his other senses to the forefront. Neither of those options promised anything good. Well, maybe closing his eyes was marginally safer. But Sherlock needed to stop talking.

"Shut up. Right now. Please."

"Yes do indeed shut up," Sherlock joined him, his voice strained.

"Not talking brought you into this situation in the first place," Sherlock pointed out airily, apparently having given up on the kissing but still willing to punish them for the lack of it.

"Okay, that's enough gloating for a day," John told him. "Go to bed. We'll be right behind you."

"But -"

"I told you to go to bed."

It was impossible to say which one of them was the most surprised when he did. Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm. John kissed him silent.

"I know. He's not you."

"But he is me," Sherlock said in clear distress.

"Yes," and John kissed him again. God, he had thought he'd grown kind of accustomed to kissing Sherlock by now. Apparently not. "And no. I told you, right at the beginning. It's complicated."

"John."

"Hmm?" Oh. He was kissing him again. And his fingers had found their way back to that luxurious hair without his mind’s input. How quaint.

"What are we going to do now?"

"We are going to go to bed, love."

–

John woke up in a deep pile of Sherlocks. A heavy arm lay over his chest, and another wrapped over his hips, and yet another had snaked its way between his back and the bed. There were legs everywhere, way too many legs for one bed, not to mention hair. No girlfriend of his had ever brought this much hair between the sheets. There was some in his nose, and some in his mouth, and still more tickling at his ears, both of them, and none of it was his own. It was too soft, and too dark, and too long by half, and John had never been happier.

There was so much to nuzzle at, warm sleep-soft skin everywhere. He kissed a random spot of random Sherlock that happened to be in front of his face and got a response that sounded like a baby bear purring, soon to fade into a lethargic sigh. He gave a sigh of his own, took a moment to just stare at the ceiling and wonder at his life. Somehow, he had ended up here. Somehow, this was reality.

Harry would eat her socks when he'd tell her. And then he'd say it was twins. And _then_ she'd get real loud, and real smug, and just a bit proud of him.

John almost wanted to get up and tell her right then.

His whole body felt happy, relaxed and content. His alarm wasn't ringing, no one was shouting at him to hurry up and be productive already. In fact, he seemed to be the first one to properly wake up. The arm over his chest tightened, drew him closer. A second later it was lax again, taken by the persistent morning drowsiness.

It was entirely possible that he hadn't ever slept this well in his life.

Simply put, it was one of the most glorious mornings he could remember having. In the soft early light, last night's ending seemed even more telling than it had in the moment.

Sherlock had frozen the second John had mentioned the bed. It had taken him a while to understand what was wrong.

”All of us need sleep. It's been a long day, longer still for you two.”

Sherlock had squirmed under him, looking both anxious and relieved. John had shaken his head in a tired disbelief. This man. This unbelievably thick man.

”You didn't think that we'd share the bed? After last night?”

”No. Not at all.” But he had continued looking constipated. Something else was amiss but John, in his fatigue, hadn't been able to figure out what it was.

”It's just,” Sherlock had said, suddenly finding the pillows very interesting indeed. ”That we haven't. Yet. And it's – traditional. So I thought. You like tradition,” and he had looked at John imploringly, the blush rising up his chest and throat to his cheeks like a tidal wave. It was soon turning to John's favourite colour – a deep pink on a paler one, telltale sign of Sherlock's mental state.

He remembered the exact moment the understanding had hit. Sherlock had sat there, trapped between John and the sofa, looking exactly like many of his patients who were sure they had something lethal. Terrified, but determined.

Oh dear.

He had really wanted to kiss him right then, but that would have sent the wrong signal. He had opened his mouth, but no sound would come out. He was sixteen again, nervous and embarrassed. He could almost hear Harry sniggering in the next room. The things this man did to him, god.

Sherlock, bless him, had managed to find his words, sparing John the embarrassment. He had thrust his chin forward, trained his voice into studied neutrality.

”We haven't yet – consummated – this,” he had said, looking supremely uncomfortable but resolute. John had had to fight down the instant urge to find Mycroft and punch him repeatedly in the face for installing that feeling into his brother.

_Do not be alarmed, little brother. It's to do with sex._

”Love,” he had instead answered, taking Sherlock's face between his hands. ”I rather think we consummated this the moment I killed that cabbie for you and you, in return, never told Lestrade who did it.”

Sherlock hadn't stopped blinking for a long time.

But that had been last night, and today the morning sun peeked into their bed, painting the sheets in creams and whites. The Sherlock on his left, the one with his arm over John's chest and another under his back and his nose right up against John's cheek, stirred and turned to his back.

”Coffee?” John asked, careful not the wake the other one.

”If you try to move I might have to handcuff you into the bedpost,” Sherlock told him pleasantly.

”We could do that anyway,” commented his double, who apparently wasn't as deeply asleep as John had imagined, raising his messy head from the pillows.

It wasn't yet ten a.m. and this was already promising to turn into a very interesting day. But one of these cheeky bastards had been with him last night in the living room, overwhelmed yet mentally bracing himself for more, and John knew he'd do well to keep that in mind.

"What the hell am I going to do with you?" He mused, stretching as well as he could in the middle of all the entangled, rather possessive limbs.

”You could kiss me,” proposed Sherlock airily, so John did.

And it was immediately obvious which one he was. Sherlock's lips were warm and pliable, his body welcoming, and John was on top of him before he even realised he had moved. Taking hold of those slim wrists and pinning them to the bed, close to the headboard, introduced a pretty curve to Sherlock's back and a prettier moan into his lips.

”Handcuffing me to the bedposts, eh?” He asked, pushing down harder. ”That's what you'd like to do?”

Sherlock didn't try to answer, just stared at him with utter adoration in his eyes. How many days had it been? Only two, his bemused brain told him, although certain parts of his body insisted on a much longer time. Sherlock tested the strength of his hold by wiggling his wrists a bit. Instinctively, John pushed down harder. The bed creaked under their weight. Next to them, another Sherlock jumped up in alarm.

”Wha-”

John froze. There was still so much to tell, how had he forgotten that? Of course Sherlock would be surprised, scared even. He hadn't actually seen them in action, and they had talked about Irene earlier. Oh dear.

”It's fine, it's not –”

But Sherlock wasn't looking at him, listening to him. Instead he stared down at himself, a look of utter bafflement on his face.

”Do it again.”

John blinked. Whatever this was, he wasn't following it.

”What?”

”Whatever that was you were doing, mangling him, do it again.”

”Interesting,” said the Sherlock whom John definitely hadn't been mangling a moment ago. ”I comply. Do it again, sir.”

Bewildered, John pushed at Sherlock again, looking at the crouching version of the indecipherable man as he did so. He shook his head.

”No. Harder. You have to mean it. _He_ has to mean it. I think.”

No, this was too weird. He got up to his knees, crossed his arms.

”What the hell are you two going for now?”

”John,” said the-Sherlock-under-him, ”all we are asking is that you snog me. I want it. He wants it. Supposedly you want it too. So please, could you?”

”Could I – snog – you?” John asked, not really sure he had heard correctly.

”Yes,” said Sherlock, nodding his head emphatically. John glanced at the other one, who made an impatient go-ahead gesture with his hand. Well, if they insisted…

Sherlock stared at him, ready and waiting. No, both of them did.

_Snog him. Snog Sherlock Holmes. This is what my life has become. The universe looked down at me and decided that this is what I deserve._

John growled and got down to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to check my [Tumblr](http://www.tunteeton.tumblr.com/)! Every Friday, you'll find a sneak peek of the next chapter there. See you next week!


	24. Connection Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! As usual, I want to/need to/would like to thank my beta. Silver, you rock!

The first demanding kiss had Sherlock snorting cheekily into his mouth, wiggling like he had been tickled, so John grasped a handful of his hair, pushed it down into the pillows and bit the bastard’s lower lip. Sherlock stopped laughing by the fourth demanding nip, which was a good indication to start grinding into him. John picked a rhythm he knew Sherlock tolerated the worst, a slow, insistent yet matter-of-fact motion that was in no way subtle. And the second those hips rose to meet him, giving up a bare inch of his lover’s precious autonomy, John knew to withdraw, coaxing a guttural growl from the man under him. He had learned his Sherlock, yes he had. Now to observe the results of his work.

Sherlock's lips were rosy and gently bruised and his eyes had gained that faraway look John had learned to connect with a job well done. He straightened his back, sat smugly on his captive’s hips and crossed his hands over his chest. Sherlock’s eyes flickered closed, open, then closed again. Yes, John thought he had succeeded well enough. He nodded in satisfaction.

”Consider yourself duly snogged.”

”Oh my god.”

It was faint, nothing more than a whisper, and it hadn't come from the direction John might have expected it to. Next to them, Sherlock looked wrecked in his t-shirt and pajama pants, his mouth slightly open and his pupils huge. John flinched. That had been too much, hadn't it? He didn't have time to say anything though, because the other Sherlock beat him to it, slurred but present.

”Did you feel it?”

”Did I?” The deep voice was wild. He lifted his hands as if to point at something, then let them drop again. ” _Did I_? Feel? I never thought I'd – but then – _the_ – oh god don't mind me I'll be right back.”

And he slid out of the bed and fled to the bathroom across the room. The door pulled closed and clicked locked before John understood what was happening. Horrified, he rose to go after him. What had they gone and done now?

But there was a hand around his wrist, pulling him back. ”Give him some time.”

On the other side of the door, the shower started running. John gave up on deducing. That wasn’t his job anyway.

”What the fuck is going on here?”

Sherlock looked at him with steady sincere eyes, clearly back on control of all his faculties. ”I have no idea.”

And that was really not good enough. Sherlock must have seen it in his expression, because he hastened to continue.

”I really don't, John. It's weird. But I can try to explain it to you.”

Okay, fine. Good. Better be good. He settled back, still keeping an eye on the bathroom door. ”Let's hear it then.”

”There's something happening,” Sherlock said, looking very young, ”between him and me. Some kind of, I don't know, connection maybe.”

”A connection,” John repeated. Sherlock shrugged.

”Yesterday, when you kissed him in the kitchen. I felt it.”

John stared. ”You felt it.”

”Well, not really _it_ ,” Sherlock answered, looking more uncomfortable by the second. ”Not the actual kiss, no. But I felt something, and I don't know how to explain this, it's too weird. I felt it inside.”

John tried to understand. ”You mean you felt it as a – feeling?”

Sherlock groaned. ”You realise how stupid that sounds? What are feelings, John? No, it was like a caress, on my nerves, I never wanted it to stop. Also, and I think he agrees with me on this,” and Sherlock drew a deep breath, took one quick glance at the bathroom door. ”It was really rather arousing.”

”You mean,” John started, trying to get his head around this. ”Right now, when I kissed you, and he sat there watching.”

Sherlock nodded. John pinched the bridge of his nose. ”And now he's – oh god. Oh fuck. What's this, Sherlock? What's going on here?”

And then a terrible thought hit him. ”Do you think, in the kitchen, when we had sex, did he – ?”

Sherlock's eyes lit up in interest. He raised his voice to be heard over the shower. ”Oy self! Did you get a hard-on when we had sex? When you were out clubbing with Lestrade?”

Something tall and heavy crashed in the bathroom. Sherlock gave John a blank look. ”Interpret that as you will.”

–

”No. No I didn't.”

Sherlock had his dressing gown wrapped tight around himself. His ears were pink, whether from the hot water or something else, John couldn't tell. But his voice was determined.

”That's interesting,” his double answered, still lounging on the bed, tapping his fingers on his stomach. ”I wonder if it's a proximity thing.”

”So you two have some sort of psychic connection now,” John repeated, not quite sure how he should take the news. ”You seem pretty okay with it.”

A double dose of calmness stared him down. ”We're dealing with multiverses here,” Sherlock pointed out. ”And some kind of plane-hopping. And versions of the same people across those universes. What's one more impossible thing on top of that? It almost makes strange kind of sense.”

”It makes no sense whatsoever,” his double retorted. ”But then again, no other part of this makes either, you're right about that. In any case, we'll try to figure it out. See if it could work to our advantage.”

”Oh, I rather think it already has.” Sherlock leveled a long stare at his double, a lewd expression on his face. He was about to wiggle his eyebrows, John realised. Oh god.

A phone beeping spared him the trouble of dying of embarrassment right there and then. A burst of anger took care of the excess emotion raging within.

”If it's Mycroft, I'm going to strangle the bloody bastard.”

”It's not Mycroft,” answered Sherlock quickly, apparently just as grateful for the change of topic as John was. ”I told him you'd punch him if he tried. You punch people too rarely anyway.” He clicked his tongue in displeasure, gave the ceiling a long, hard stare. ”I see now I underestimated your method of retribution. You're more invested in this than I thought.”

”More invested?” John asked in horror. ” _More_ invested? Love, I couldn't be more invested if I was in the process of actually drowning. And I've tried drowning. You get pretty damn invested in that.”

”It's Lestrade,” said the other Sherlock, holding the phone. ”He managed all of nineteen hours without my help.”

”Well, what’s he asking?” John asked.

”If I've 'sorted it out' with you yet. He means him, of course. I suppose we have to forgive him the confusion.”

John sighed. ”Call him back. And put him on speaker phone, would you?”

–

”So, have you two stupid idiots stopped being stupid idiots yet?”

_Two. Let it slide._

”Yes, Greg,” John said. ”Hi, Greg.”

There was a moment of silence on the other side of the line. Then: ”Well, fuck me. Do not ever, ever tell me what happened. Not even if I get drunk just to ask.” 

Another silence followed. ”Especially if I get drunk enough to ask.”

”It's a deal,” Sherlock answered calmly. ”Now, Ricoletti.”

Lestrade unleashed a long string of profanities on them.

”I suppose that means you don't know where he is.”

”I think I already told you that we found his bloody car,” Greg answered. ”And you're not going to bloody believe what we found in that fucking car this morning, folded in half and tucked under the driver’s seat.”

Sherlocks glanced at each other. ”Well?”

”A fucking business card,” Lestrade said. ”Of bloody fucking Janus Cars.”

–

”I thought they were taken out of business,” John said fifteen minutes later as a cab took them to NSY.

”Mr Ewert was, yes,” Sherlock said. ”He was the one with ties to Moriarty. But Janus Cars as a company lives on.”

”And now they've just happened to hire to Interpol's Most Wanted. Hardly a coincidence.”

”Yes. I suspect Lestrade's purge wasn't quite as thorough as he thought it was at the time.”

John shook his head. This was very much not good at all.

”But that means that Ricoletti is somehow connected to Moriarty.”

”Does that really surprise you?” The other Sherlock asked in a low voice. ”They're career criminals, both of them. They’ve just taken different routes with publicity.”

”I would be surprised if Moriarty didn't have some kind of tie to every larger underground organisation in the western world, maybe beyond,” his double agreed. ”He thrives on the crossroads, after all. That's where his influence comes from.”

”So, by hunting down Ricoletti we might learn something new about Moriarty,” John mused. ”As if there wasn't enough incentive to catch the bastard otherwise.”

”That's something I wondered about,” Sherlock continued. ”Why did Ricoletti suddenly go public? Why did he come to London? Why did he kidnap Mr Staunton? Why was any of this necessary? As far as we know, he had his pension carved out and ready in some forsaken corner of the world. Why risk it all by coming back here?”

”Revenge?” John proposed.

”Revenge on what? The stock index? The man had made his fortune already. It's not like he was running out of funds.”

”Mark Staunton said he called it an invasion,” John remembered. ”An invasion of the stock market. Maybe he just wanted more.”

”Maybe,” said Sherlock, doubt in his voice. ”Or maybe he didn't want to tell his puppet the real reason they were there.”

”Bait,” said the other one, and Sherlock nodded.

”It's a possibility.”

”Bait for what?” John asked, but Sherlock just shrugged.

”Who knows? It's too early for any of this, really. I don't make a habit of speculating. But when it comes to Moriarty, that's often all we have to go on.”

”Wait,” John interjected. ”Or we talking about Moriarty now? Or Ricoletti?”

”I think that when it comes to crime, not petty crime but real crime,” Sherlock answered, ”then it's a safe bet to say that we're always talking about Moriarty.”

“And considering our situation,” the other one continued, glancing at the driver, “it’s in our best interests to get into the roots of this as fast as possible.”

–

Lestrade had had the Audi brought into the NSY garage. This was far from the first time John had visited the place, but it always made him feel slightly uncomfortable. It was a huge, echoing chamber with shivering lights under the building, just the kind of place Mycroft might choose for his impromptu interview sessions.

The Detective Inspector himself was waiting by the door, talking on his phone and looking at his watch by turns. Seeing them hurrying towards him took some of the tension out of his shoulders. John wondered if this felt any different to him than the other cases. He had been taken away in that car as well. He had lived through Moriarty’s horrible game of bombs. Some of that had to bleed through and make this personal, didn’t it?

If Lestrade harboured any resentments, they weren't obvious in his voice. Well, at least they weren't obvious to John. His company might have disagreed, but there was no time to ask. Seeing all three of them clouded Greg’s eyes. His face took on a dogged expression.

”You have ten minutes. Also, he's not going in there. We have talked about this, Sherlock. I haven’t magically changed my mind during the night, no matter what else might have happened.”

Sherlocks stopped in their tracks, a pride of lions prowling. It struck John once again how ridiculous this game of theirs was. Two Sherlock Holmeses, out in the open, doing absolutely nothing at all to hide or camouflage the other. Only the coat served as an identifier, and everybody bought it. The coat made the man, and without his Belstaff Sherlock was just another pedestrian, a mere Sherrinford Holmes, the over-excitable younger twin fresh back from Tibet.

Sherlock-of-the-day, the original one who had a suspicious habit of winning their coat-carrying lotteries, pocketed his gloves in a leisurely manner.

”Is there a pint of previously frozen blood on the front seat?” It was a lazy question, aimed at the ceiling. Lestrade huffed impatiently.

”Of course not.”

Sherlock nodded. ”Then it's just a car, and Sherrinford has an excellent pair of eyes. A very _observant_ pair of eyes, I should say. The car is not going to scar him, mentally or otherwise, but he might see something in there I don't. After all, it has happened before.”

Lestrade widened his stance, crossed his arms.

”I don't care. He's a civilian.”

”So am I. So is John. Your line of acceptance is very arbitrary, I have to say.”

John stood stoically between his two loves, trying not to broadcast to a hundred-mile radius the pure adoration he felt for Sherlock. Who would have thought they'd come to this, to a Sherlock whose lips were still kiss-bruised, who was adamant in including his troublesome double?

And on the other side of John was his own Sherlock, a man whose whole life had been one long string of rejections. He had been shut off so many times before, by so many people. And now he waited for today's verdict, shuffled nervously from toe to toe. John put a hand on his arm and Sherlock looked at him, but his words were aimed at his double.

”It's fine, brother mine. I understand. I can wait.”

”That's a good boy,” Greg muttered, and for a second John had nothing but mauling in his head. His fingers tightened and Sherlock flinched, took the smallest step towards him and grasped the hem of his jacket in response. John cleared his throat. Lestrade didn't know, couldn't know, but still – that had been uncalled for.

Nobody ’boy-ed’ his Sherlock. Nobody.

The other one seemed to agree. He straightened his back and flipped the coat collar up, a peacock attempting to look bigger.

”No, it's not fine. It's an arbitrary ruling based on emotion, not rationale. I expected better of you, Detective Inspector, and I will not tolerate this.”

”No really, it's fine,” said Sherlock, sounding just a bit like an trampled mouse. ”You two go ahead and do your thing. I'll just wait inside, if that's all right with you? Looks like it might start raining.”

Another 'good boy' would have cost Greg a broken nose and John the goodwill of London's police force forever, but it never came. Instead Lestrade gave Sherlock his key card and a relieved smile, and John let it go with the utmost reluctance. He deserved better.

Next time, he'd wear the coat even if it meant John wrestling it off the other one and buttoning him into it himself. Naked, if need be. What was that? Oh, it was Lestrade talking again. Shut up, Greg. No one wants your opinions.

”Go and get yourself some coffee from the break room, Sherry. If anyone bothers you tell them that I sent you. And thanks for understanding, my superiors are putting enough pressure on me as it is.”

Sherlock squeezed John's hand for the shortest moment before accepting Greg's card and fleeing for the lift. Except that he didn't look sad or rejected. Mostly he looked like he was in a hurry, like he had a purpose.

John frowned. That was not right. Something was going on here, something they hadn't bothered to tell him about. They had put up a token amount of resistance, yes, but just enough not to arouse suspicion. He glanced at the remaining Sherlock. The man looked completely unaffected, eyes already on the car, as if the last few minutes had only happened in John's imagination, as if he hadn't just lost a battle of wills against Lestrade.

Yesterday came to mind, with Sherlock turned away from the interrogation room and then disappearing from the corridor. Loo, he had said. For fuck’s sake, no. That hadn’t been it. He had been looking for something, or someone. A little task for Mycroft, they had said. Nothing for John to worry about.

The little bastards were multitasking.

And now there was a Sherlock Holmes, set loose in New Scotland Yard. With a key card, and a DI's blessings.

What in the seven hells had they come up with?

–

It was a good thing his skills as a doctor weren't acutely needed right then. He stood in position, hands behind his back, while Sherlock went over the car with a magnifying glass, tweezers and a dozen little bags. While John pondered on this newest puzzle of Sherlocks, half of the mystery spent happy ten minutes sniffing at the car seats, rummaging through the booth and the glove box, and finally emerging, waving Lestrade's ID in the air. Greg blinked.

”Oh yeah. I dropped that in there, figured it wouldn't hurt to leave something behind in case things didn't go according to plan.”

”How lucky for you Sherrinford was on the case,” Sherlock muttered in response, but John could see his heart wasn’t in it. Greg snatched the card from him with a sigh.

”Look, like it or not but there are rules. Quite a lot of rules, in fact, some of which I'm breaking this very second. It wasn't this big a problem before, but my boss has started to pay more attention to me lately. I can't let everybody _and_ their twin brother into these places. I'm wasting too much time already fending off questions. Enough of that. Did you find anything my team might have missed?”

Sherlock held up a collection of sand, hair and mud, all neatly packaged in separate pouches.

”Maybe. We need Molly.”

Greg peeked at the pouches. ”What’s wrong with our lab?”

Sherlock grimaced. ”The people inside. At least in Barts, I won’t be interrupted every ten seconds. I’ll be in touch, Lestrade. Try not to get kidnapped again before that.”

”I’ll do my best,” Greg muttered, but then his phone was ringing and he turned away to answer it.

Sherlock pocketed the bags and gave John a quick flash of a smile, his eyes lingering a second too long over his lips.

”Stay here. Find him. Maybe it's for the best, she's got awfully keen eyes. If there's one person in this city who'll get it, it's her. Let's keep them apart.”

Lestrade was yelling at his phone. Apparently, it was Anderson. John reckoned they had a moment of privacy, so he stepped closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice, bringing his lips a bit too close to his friend’s ear.

”What's going on?”

Sherlock blushed and looked away. ”What do you mean?”

He had to fight a grin. Sherlock needed to be kissed, and badly. There had been no kissing for at least two hours, an absolutely unacceptable amount of time. But not now. Not here. Stay on topic, Watson.

”With him and this place? Why does he want to be left alone here?”

Sherlock chuckled, his earlier awkwardness forgotten now that John had removed the threat of public affection. ”Very good, John. But this is not the time. Just trust that we have it under control.”

John raised his eyebrows, bit his teeth together. So they _were_ in it together. He should have guessed it before. He should have bloody known from the start. Sherlocks never went down this easily, not unless they wanted to.

”We.” He didn't bother making it a question, but Sherlock took it as one nevertheless.

”I did go clubbing with Lestrade, remember? And Anderson, too.” He shivered, clearly repulsed by the memory. ”Just know that it was for a good reason. I do my own investigating and he does his.”

”Investigating what?”

Sherlock's smile tightened a fraction.

”Everybody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have a very nice week now, and see you next Monday! (Don't forget the Sneak Peek on Friday!)


	25. A Thorough Inspection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's Monday! Here we go again, and again I want to thank my beta Silver. Silver, you rock!

Getting permission from Lestrade had been easy. Was this how they did it? Cause him some mild trouble until his conscience was uneasy and then ask for a harmless favour? It certainly seemed to work. Dammit, how many times had those two done this to _John_? The scenario felt very familiar.

”Mind if I go looking for him?”

Greg had waved his hand, his attention already on the Audi.

”Just keep me up to date, will you?”

And now here he was in the bowels of NSY, with Sherlock nowhere in sight. They really should get a phone for him, this was getting ridiculous. Where to even look for him? Where would he go, what could he be searching for?

Force of habit brought John to Greg's office first, but the blinds were closed and the door locked. Sherlock was not in the communal kitchen, nor in the big bullpen that housed the workstations of Lestrade's team, among others. A dozen or so inquiring heads rose to greet him when he stepped into the room. John recognised Dimmock among them.

”Looking for something, Doctor Watson?” asked a middle-aged man who didn’t look much like a police officer, a ready smile on his round face.

”Yeah, actually,” John answered, trying to remember where he had met this person. ”I'm looking for Sherrinford. Have you seen him?”

The man chuckled in delight. ”Sherry! Is he here today? No, I haven't seen him, but when you find him, do tell him that we have a pub night every Saturday. He's welcome to join us. Same time, same place.”

”Yeah, all right, thanks,” John replied, nonplussed. The pub night, Sherlock had just told him, was part of the mystery. But despite all the clues he had gathered, he was no closer to putting this one together.

The officer saw his confusion. ”I'm sorry, where are my manners! You're welcome too, Doc. Of course you are. Just leave _him_ home. We don't need that sort of attitude in our free time. Honestly, I don't understand how those two can be brothers. They're nothing alike!”

”It's a mystery, isn't it,” John muttered through wooden lips. Honestly, who was this guy? Was John supposed to know him? He  had certainly met Sherlock, both the real and the imaginary version, and he even knew John’s name! But John was positive they had never met, at least not on a crime scene.

”I saw Sherry in the loo maybe ten minutes ago, said he was on his way out,” mentioned Detective Inspector Dimmock in a sudden bout of unknowing empathy, and John fled in gratitude.

Sherlocks and nightclubs and kissing and hidden plots and never ever ever explaining anything. It was all fine, just getting a bit much for him. Honestly, if just once in his life he could understand everything that was going on it would be brilliant. Just once, and he'd be happy.

But then again, he was living with Sherlock. Sherlocks. And not just living, either. _And_ they apparently had some kind of psychic connection now, because of course they would, because John clearly wasn't confused enough as it stood. Oh look, he was already here. He couldn't remember a single step of the way, but no matter, no matter. Time to start paying attention again. He opened the door to the gents and peeked inside.

The tiled room contained no traces of Sherlock. John leaned on the door to catch his breath as well as gather his thoughts. Had the man actually headed out? Should he just give up?

One last pass by Lestrade's office, and then he'd be on his way to Baker Street. It was time for lunch anyway.

The blinds were still closed. The door was still locked. Of course they were, Greg was currently four floors down probably crawling around in the Audi's trunk. What had John imagined? Sherlock was already halfway to Baker Street, sitting in some cab and wondering what could take them so long.

He gave a theatrical sigh for absolutely no-one’s benefit at all and turned to leave, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the ceiling. Why was he taking this so badly? It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had put John off his scent, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. That was practically what they lived for.

Lestrade's door opened a fraction, just enough to let a slim wrist through. It grasped his hand and tugged, hard. The door opened fully for a second, and John was pulled inside, nearly thrown off-balance. It happened so fast that he didn't even realise he could resist, and then the door was closed once more and Sherlock was kissing him fiercely. Okay. Time to rewind. This part he did understand.

”Say what you thought, tell me, I need to know,” Sherlock demanded in furious whispers, not bothering to remove his mouth from John's as he did so.

Okay. So he didn't understand after all. It had been nice, imagining that for a second.

”What -,” John started, but Sherlock hushed him.

”Don't think my invite goes this far, better be quiet.”

John took a step back. Sherlock crowded him immediately again, as if he couldn't stay even that far away. As if he was fighting the urge to pounce on him here in Greg's darkened office. ”What's going on?”

Sherlock ignored the question, or maybe he didn't. Maybe it was finally time for John to become fluent in his particular way of telling things. ”When Lestrade said I couldn't come. I saw you. You were so angry. I could hear you gritting your teeth. It was all I could do not to kneel for you there and then. Tell me.”

John blinked.

Oh.

This was interesting.

This was a game he knew by now. Two could play it. He glanced at the door, which remained firmly closed. Of course, Sherlock had the key card. Unless Greg bothered checking what he had done with it – very unlikely, considering the yarders' general opinion of 'Sherry', they had quite a while for themselves. And he had meant to thank Sherlock, properly, for last night.

For everything, really.

And Sherlock had chosen this place. He would have known John would come after him. And he had come here, to the inner sanctum of everything that was denied him.

John smiled. Sherlock saw that, of course he did, and shivered.

He straightened his back, rolled his shoulders. The tags glittered against Sherlock's skin, familiar and reassuring by now. And while John had never been one for exhibitionism, for the thrill of getting caught, he didn't even really need to be. All that mattered now was Sherlock, who was getting a tad impatient at all this smiling and staring and not doing anything interesting.

”Come on, John.”

”Silence.”

His lover froze, and John dropped the smile.

”I was displeased.”

Whispering made this more difficult. He would have wanted to shout, to yell his feelings from the rooftops. But Sherlock had chosen this place for a reason and here, restraint was demanded. So whispering it was.

”You are spectacular. Come here, five steps.”

Sherlock's earlier haste and aggression seemed to melt away from him. He exhaled, almost as if in prayer, and took five careful steps to bring himself close to John. He reminded John a bit of a lion stalking its prey, or maybe a surgeon at work. Completely focused, completely in the moment. That focus, when it was zeroed in him, had always felt heady, dangerous even. Now, as excitement and adrenaline took root, that focus raised goosebumps on the skin of John's arms.

He _loved_ this moment.

Unbuttoning Sherlock's jacket and sliding it down his arms and onto the floor should have been a matter of seconds, but John chose to savour the moment. Finally in his shirtsleeves, standing still as a statue, Sherlock seemed both vulnerable and tempting. And John had every intention in the world of being tempted. He raised his hand again, brushing against the tight row of buttons until his fingers met bare skin. At the touch, Sherlock shivered and his knees buckled. John drew his hand away. Patience.

”No. This is my order for you. Remain standing. I won't have you kneeling for me. You should kneel for no one.”

Sherlock drew a sharp breath and nodded. His eyes were fixed on John's hand, raised between them. That gave John an idea.

”Look at me, at my eyes. I want you looking at me while I'm looking at you. You see everything. See me now. See how I love you. See how I would do absolutely anything for you.”

Another nod, Sherlock with his eyes as wide as they could go. Pleased, John got back to work.

”Yes, I was displeased. You are brilliant, and no doors should ever be closed to you. I wanted to punch him for standing in your way.” Every phrase was accompanied by another button being opened, a new shiver of skin being exposed.

”I've had enough of people telling you what you can't do, Sherlock.” Fourth button accompanied that statement. Sherlock's chest was rising and falling rapidly, but no sound escaped his mouth.

”Because the truth is, they are all wrong. You are talented, and driven, and there's nothing you can't do if you set your mind to it.”

John opened the last button in reverence and let the shirt fall down, only to be caught by the still-closed cufflinks. Sherlock stood in front of him, bare-chested and wild-eyed, a slim waist disappearing into tight trousers, and John had to take a moment just to appraise the view. He liked the shirt there, adding a touch of restriction to the scene.

”Not to mention bloody gorgeous,” he muttered, ”but that's beside the point.”

Tearing his eyes off the magnificent body proved difficult. John shook his head, hid a smile behind a hand. An idea struck him and he walked past Sherlock, wandered over to Lestrade’s desk as if there could be anything there more interesting  than the person currently squirming in the middle of the room. When he spoke, he made sure to whisper in a way Sherlock could still hear, with their backs to each other.

”I do have a point I'm trying to make here, love. I wanted to thank you.”

Sherlock didn't answer. Of course he didn't, John had told him to be quiet.

”For everything. I have no doubt this is all your doing, somehow. Us being here, right now. Us being where we are, in general. Me and him. You and him. All of it. It has all been you, hasn't it?”

He turned around, appraising the view from behind. Sherlock’s ribs rose and fall in tune with his breaths, but otherwise he had remained in place. Carefully, he nodded his answer. A blush was creeping up his back and over his shoulder blades. John loved that blush.

”I love that blush,” he murmured aloud, stepped closer to track it with his fingertips. ”It's like instant feedback. Telling me if I'm on the right track.”

The blush kept going, rising up that long neck. John needed to see his face again, see how his words affected him.

”Turn around.”

Sherlock looked flushed and embarrassed, a very clear erection tenting his trousers. John decided it suited him for the moment.

”In all honesty, there's nothing I don't love about you,” he confessed, twirling a lazy finger around a convenient nipple. ”Your body, of course. It's a fucking work of art. I can't wait to get my mouth on you again. But your mind, most of all. Your sharp corners and your schemes and your secrets. Your honesty. Your strength. Your heart. You see me. You know it's all true. But I’m beside the point yet again. You brought us here for a reason.”

Dazed, Sherlock nodded.

”Two reasons, I’d think,” John mused. ”Tell me, Sherlock, what are you looking for here?”

Sherlock’s voice was ragged, even in a whisper. ”I needed to see if Lestrade’s office is bugged.”

That brought a stop to John’s slow advance. He tilted his head in suspicion. ”Is it?”

”No.”

Pleased, he raised his hand to Sherlock’s belt buckle, making his intention absolutely clear. His lover’s stomach caved in at the contact, as if shocked. John hesitated for a moment. There was no mistaking the look of pure lust on Sherlock’s face, nor the clear bulge in his trousers. He petted it gently, just because he could.

”Answer me this: if I told you to come right now, would you come in your pants?”

The little area of his lover’s face that had been spared the red flush before succumbed now.

”Sherlock?”

”Yes, sir.”

”That’s _very_ interesting,” murmured John and paused, pressed into the desperate twitching under his hand. It was a tempting thought, he had to admit, to see Sherlock so undone, so easily.

”Sir -,” said Sherlock, a bit panicky, and was that diminutive thrusting, his hips pushing towards John just the slightest bit?

”Shh. I’m thinking. And stop squirming, it’s distracting me.”

The whimper that escaped him was one of the most satisfactory sounds John had ever heard.

”You’re so fucking beautiful,” John whispered. ”I wish I could keep you like this forever, hanging onto everything I say. I want to suck you to the point of orgasm and then put the coat on you, no pants, no trousers. And I want to take you out, walk you across London and push you into every dirty shadowed corner I can find, keeping you right like this, until you can’t remember anything existing except for my mouth and your need, and then I want to take you home and fuck you over the kitchen table, this time for real, and tuck you into bed, still leaking, still waiting, and do it all again the next day. That’s what I want to do.”

Okay, where had _that_ come from? His eyes widened in alarm, but Sherlock let out a full-body moan, every single muscle in him somehow hardening and softening at the same time. John frowned, mostly at himself, but Sherlock stared at him, somehow managing to look chastised, embarrassed and horny beyond belief at the same time.

Which was the moment John realised he could actually do everything he had just described, everything he hadn’t known a minute ago he wanted to do. He could do it, he could get away with it, he could be worshipped for it.

Time to up the game.

The next frown was solely for Sherlock’s benefit.

”I told you to keep standing, and to keep quiet. We don’t want to be found out now, do we?”

The answering headshake was very decisive. No, Sherlock didn’t want to be found out, not now, not ever.

Opening that poor buckle would have been the work of seconds, but John didn’t want to waste even those. Instead, he went straight for the zipper to free the prize beneath. Sherlock didn’t let out a sound, but his ribs rose and fell like a rabbit’s and his eyes followed John’s hands with fevered intensity.

Pleased, John stepped back to marvel at his work. Sherlock’s cock rose up to almost meet his belt, his arms straining against the fabric trapping them in place. His eyes were black and deep and hazy, and his mouth hang slightly open, begging for something to suck at. John trained his face into a disapproving tut.

”You indecent thing, you’re going to leave stains all over Greg’s floors, dripping like that.”

Sherlock swallowed another whimper, and John took pity on him. Enough was enough. Now to deliver the final blow.

”Sherlock Holmes,” he said, sitting down to Greg’s chair with solemn pomp, ”I command you to -”

Sherlock stared at him, shock and awe flickering on his face, waiting for the word. In the chair, John could see his balls twitching up, ready to deliver. The temptation was almost impossible to resist.

”Get over here and into my mouth. God, I can’t wait to taste you. You’re so gorgeous. You’re so fucking gorgeous. I love you I love you I love you.”

It took Sherlock some seconds to realise the order wasn’t what he had been expecting, and still a few more to force his limbs into movement. Very soon, however, John was presented with the only cock in the world he was interested in sucking, its owner peeking at him with wonder in his eyes.

”Now, I’m still not very good at this so don’t get too excited,” he muttered, but the worry was futile because Sherlock was moaning before John had even touched him, salty and hot. The first tentative lick had him panting, and the third one teased a broken ”Sir” from his mouth.

”Gorgeous,” John repeated, apparently unable to remember other words existed. ”So bloody gorgeous. Come in my mouth, Sherlock. Do it now.”

He had planned to suck him down, but Sherlock was already pulsing in his mouth, clenching his teeth and pumping once, twice. His arms, still trapped by the shirt, tried to flail helplessly but remained in their prison. John took hold of his hips to steady him just as Sherlock collapsed over him, sweaty and spent and still more than half hard.

”Sir,” he repeated, and sounded near tears. John gathered him close.

”Shh,” he said. ”I’ve got you. You did perfectly. Thank you, for everything. I love you.”


	26. Bad Words And How to Use Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monday! New chapter! Great beta! All that good stuff!

Sherlock was silent on the way home, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. He just sat quietly with his hands in his lap and his eyes on the window, not quite registering the streets scrolling past or the rain pouring down from the grey London sky. John sat next to him, his hand possessively on Sherlock’s thigh, wordlessly daring the cabbie to comment on it.

He hadn’t really planned for this ready-for-fight-mode, but that’s how the day had turned out. He had been horny and uncomfortable and trapped in NSY with an almost delirious Sherlock. Was it any surprise, then, that his hackles were up a bit?

But yes, getting out of the building had turned out to be more of a challenge than John had imagined. Sherlock had been pretty unhelpful, shivering at the slightest touch and unable to take his dark eyes off John’s trousers, housing John’s very interested nether regions. But doing something about that hadn’t really been an option. They’d wasted enough time already, and the last thing John had wanted was to be caught with his pants down in Lestrade’s office. Home, he had told himself. They only needed to get back to Baker Street and everything would sort itself out. In a very satisfactory manner. Yes.

They had taken the long route to the lifts, because the short one would have taken them straight through the common working area. And even in his current state John had realised that wouldn’t be a good idea right then. Even then they had to stop twice because Sherlock couldn’t stop himself latching onto John, begging for something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

“No,” John had whispered furiously after the second collision, just outside the loos, trying to untangle himself from his determined lover. “I don’t know what you want me to do, but I will not do it here. Wait. Just wait, Sherlock. We’re going home. Baker Street, Sherlock. Privacy. _Fuck._ ”

So the going had been slow and perilous, and then they had ran into Sally. She was fresh out of the garage below the building, emerging from the lift they had just been about to enter. John bit down the curse already on his tongue. They had been so close. He could lean over Sally’s shoulder and touch the damn lift.

Sherlock vibrated next to him, unable to stand still, unable to move away from John.

”What are you two still doing here?”

It hadn’t exactly been hostility in her voice, but the kind of sharp curiosity that was characteristic to her. Sherlock had taken a step back as if slapped and tried to hide behind John’s shoulder, a feeble attempt at the best. Sally’s eyes dropped the smile that still lingered on the corners of her mouth.

”What’s wrong with Sherry?”

And John had opened and closed his mouth like an idiot, his mind going unhelpfully blank. Not a single convenient lie materialised through the haze created by their mad moment in Lestrade’s office and the continued tightness in his jeans. He was still stupidly hard and could only hope Sally wouldn’t notice. He scanned the light green walls, hoping to see an answer to materialise from somewhere. It didn’t. And all the while Sally glared at them, waiting for an explanation.

All John had been able to think about was the look on Sherlock’s face right before being told to come. Glorious it had been, yes, but not helpful right now.

”About that, um -”

His stupid, over-excited, _not helpful_ brain had apparently short-circuited from all the lust it had been subjected to. He closed his mouth again. Bravo, John Watson. You lie as fluently as Harry stays sober. He wasted precious seconds stupidly staring at Sally. She did not look impressed.

”I got lost. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock’s voice had sounded small, timid, and about six years old. John shot his companion an incredulous look. Sherlock’s cheeks were still pink, creating a fantastic illusion of an aggressive flush. He had evident trouble meeting Sally’s eyes and his fingers busied themselves on the hem of his jacket. He couldn’t have looked guiltier if he’d tried. John wanted to stuff him into his pocket and never let Sally lay her eyes on him again.

”You got lost,” Sally had repeated, nonplussed. She crossed her arms, effortlessly blocking their escape route to the lifts. It couldn’t be helped. Somehow, they had to talk their way out of this.

Words were something John didn’t have an abundance of right then.

Sherlock let out a pathetic mewl, clearly unable to cope with the power of her attention. His knees started shaking and John realised he had about five seconds to act before their cover would be blown. He needed to get Sherlock away from here, and fast. But Sally was still standing in front of the lift’s closing door, demanding an explanation. Lifts. Doors. Getting lost at NSY.

_Figure it out Watson it’s not that hard._

Sherlock tried to fuse himself into John’s jacket.

Lift doors lost Sherlock pressing onto him OH.

”Sherrinford,” he had said, inserting as much authority into his voice as he dared in Sally’s presence, ”nobody here is angry at you. You haven’t done anything wrong. You just pressed a wrong button on the way up, that’s all.”

Sherlock had stared at him, clearly hanging onto every word he said but unable to produce any of his own. His lower lip started trembling. If his eyes welled up John would actually be forced to kick something.

”Is there something wrong with him?” Sally’s voice had betrayed her bewilderment, and John was inclined to agree with her. But this was Sherlock, his Sherlock, the one that was prone to labelling himself as the property of one John Watson, and he was starting to suspect this newest episode had something to do with that side of him.

Once the lie had started the rest came easier.

”He’s just worried you’re going to arrest him.”

It was the first thought that had come to mind, and it prompted both Sally and Sherlock to raise their eyebrows at him.

”And why would I arrest him?” Sally had asked slowly, her hand going for her belt. No gun there, no handcuffs. Instincts were hard to mask.

”For breaching security,” John had answered, as if it was an obvious leap to make. The makeshift lie sounded weaker and weaker by the second. But it was the only one he had and so help him, he would go down with it. ”He landed on the seventh floor. And since he had Greg’s card, the doors opened for him.”

”The Archive,” she had said, and the ever-present skepticism in her voice thinned a bit. Her hand left her belt. ”I see.”

They had sneaked up there together a couple of times, he and the other Sherlock. And John strongly suspected the bastard had made several private visits of his own without bothering to tell him. The things that could come to your rescue! But Sherlock was still staring at John, still worrying the hem of his jacket. Sally tapped him gently on the arm.

”Worry not, Sherry,” she had said. ”I’m not going to jail you over that. It’s an easy mistake to make, especially since you had the key card. I’ve done it myself a couple of times when I was in a hurry.” She stopped and grinned. “If it had been your brother, though, that would be a different case. But you haven’t spent the last decade getting on my nerves. Walk free. Just remember, the offices are at the sixth. And don’t forget Saturday!”

Sherlock had sputtered a _thank you_ and John had pushed him into the waiting lift, slamming his palm over the button to the ground floor. And as soon as the door closed between them and Sally, he had reached up to wrap his hand around his lover’s neck.

”Now you’re going to listen to me here very carefully,” he had told him, keeping his voice pleasant and his grip hard. ”I need no more theatrics while we’re here. Those doors are going to open, and we’re going to walk out of them, and through the entrance hall, and out to the street. And you’re going to keep you head up, and your mind under control, and I am not going to touch you. Do you understand me?”

”Yes, John,” Sherlock had answered, and there had been a hint of embarrassment in his voice. ”Sorry, John.”

“None of that now,” John had warned him, and then the lift stopped and they stepped into the world waiting outside.

So yes, getting him out of NSY had been something of an adventure, but now Sherlock was sitting meekly next to him and they were almost home. The heat of his thigh under the thin fabric of his trousers was driving John slightly bonkers, but it was fine. Disaster had been averted, everything was fine, they were most definitely not caught in the act -

“Sherlock,” John realised suddenly. “You still have Greg’s key card, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, a little smile creeping onto his face. John groaned. There was always something.

–

He unlocked the door and they walked inside. Sherlock followed him the whole way upstairs, keeping a strict two steps behind him, waiting patiently while he fumbled with the keys again. It was all sorts of wrong, and the worry in John rose again. Sherlock had been like this before, but then he had been shot full of the terrible Bliss and so far under he couldn’t recognise up from down. What had caused this reaction now?

Was this, somehow, John’s own doing?

_He_ wasn’t at home yet. John threw his jacket to the sofa and turned on his lover, who was still waiting by the doorway.

“Come inside,” he said, and Sherlock complied at once, stepping neatly into the living room. Fear tightened in John’s throat. Sherlock had this _smile_ on his face, as if he was perpetually delighted by something invisible fluttering around his nose.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes. Home. 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, City of Westminster, London.” Robotic, precise voice. No intonation. The fear in John only deepened. He took a step closer. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the floor.

“How do you feel?”

“Floaty. Warm. Tingly. Fantastic.” Sherlock peeked at him, quickly, with unfiltered adoration in his eyes. “I _love_ you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Okay. This was definitely not normal. John crowded into him, raised his chin to peek into his pupils.

They were deep and dark, with only the slightest halo of light blue framing them. Sherlock allowed himself to be manhandled, but his gaze kept slipping down John’s body, as if his eyes burned him. His lips were rosy, well-bitten. Oh lord.

John took his hand and tugged him into movement. In a matter of minutes Sherlock was sitting in his chair, with a warm cup of hot chocolate in his hands. He looked at it, confused and frowning, then shook his head gently.

“No. Too far away.”

The chair was abandoned in favour of the floor next to John’s own chair. Sherlock pressed himself into John’s legs, sipping at his drink every few seconds until it was all gone. Then he offered the empty cup to John, followed by a quick glance.

“Good?”

“Yes,” said John, although he was unsure to what exactly he was answering. “You did well. How do you feel now?”

“A little sad,” Sherlock answered, sighing. “It’s already passing. Shame. Not likely to get there again anytime soon.”

“Sherlock,” John tried. “I don’t understand. What’s passing? What’s going on? Is this, you know, the thing? The Other Place’s thing?”

Sherlock bit his lip again, a familiar gesture almost reminding John of exasperation.

“You can just say submissive, John. It’s not a bad word.”

It felt bad in his mouth, though. Dirty and pathetic, everything Sherlock was definitely not. But he had corrected John. It was important to him. John sighed, fought to keep his voice neutral.

“Fine. Is this a submissive thing?”

Sherlock pressed his cheek into John’s knee. When he spoke, it was clear he had to search for the right words. But little by little, his voice became his once again, more alive, more real.

“In the office, there, you have to understand. What you did. I wanted to kiss the soles of your shoes. I wanted to worship at your feet. I wanted to wrap myself around you and curl up for the night. But you told me to walk. So I did. Did my best. And then Sally. And all I could think of was how I wanted. No. Needed. How I needed to be on my knees for you.”

Sherlock stopped and looked at him, raising his hands to underline his position on the floor. He turned his head to the side, showing off the tight chain around his throat.

“This is good,” he muttered. “This is what I needed. Need. Just like this.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to understand. “Do you mean, what we did there, was it not good? I thought it was what you wanted, I thought I understood why you wanted it. Did I fuck it up? Oh shit, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry.”

That might have been an eye roll. John had never been so happy in his life to see one.

“No. This side of me, John, it’s not evil. But I see that it’s also not understood here. So please. Take that into account, this effect you have on me, before going all out. Because there’s no switch in me to turn it on and off at will. It’s a part of me like breathing, like thinking is. And while I’m there, I can’t just snap back.”

“So you did want it?” John asked cautiously, needing to make this absolutely sure.

“Of course I did! Stop doubting yourself! But I never thought you’d take the game quite so far. I wasn’t prepared. I should have warned you. I should be punished -”

They both shook their heads at the same time, with Sherlock tugging at his hair in exasperation.

“No, not that. Not that. See? See how this works?”

“It’s fine,” John said, taking his hands to his own. “Stop that. I’m not going to hurt you. _You_ are not going to hurt you.”

“I know that,” Sherlock answered, not sounding thrilled about the promise at all. “Think of it this way: He’s addicted to nicotine. But that’s nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this. Horrible things happen if I don’t get my fix. That’s why Mycroft is so worried. And when I do get it,” and he raised his hands again, demonstrating their situation. “See? You did great, John. You just surprised me. And it takes me a while to come down from there.”

“From _where_ , Sherlock?”

“Ahem.”

Terrible horrible soul-crushing guilt.

No. Not like this. They needed to speak about it, but not like this. John closed his eyes. It was too late.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said. “And how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough”, answered Sherlock. “Definitely long enough.”

–

“Tea?”

“No.”

“Come in and sit down.”

“Thank you, self, for inviting me into my own home. I shall graciously accept.”

But Sherlock did sit on his chair, with a heavy sigh. He both sounded and looked tired.

“Let’s start with the basics. I didn’t feel a thing. The distance must be a factor.”

“Any emotional oscillation?” asked the-Sherlock-on-the-floor.

“No. I was concentrating. And Molly was talking, too. Something about a cat. I had to mute her to get any work done. Anyway, my turn.”

“I’m so sorry,” said John, prompting them both to turn to stare at him.

“Why?” They asked, and hearing it in stereo just made things worse. He raised his hands.

“I feel like – like I cheated on you. Did I? I have no idea. There are no rules for something like this!”

Sherlock studied him for a minute. “You haven’t achieved orgasm during the past four hours,” he commented, keeping his voice remarkably steady. “I know all the signs. Why do you feel you have cheated on me?”

John cast a look at the man by his feet. Sherlock followed his gaze. On the floor, Sherlock returned that stare calmly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“Thought about what?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“Kissing him senseless in Lestrade’s office. The thrill of being found out. Shall I tell you how it plays out? In real life?”

Sherlock blushed a deep red. Somehow, it looked different on him than on his double. More innocent, maybe.

“That’s unnecessary,” he replied, keeping his voice passive.

“It is not,” answered his double. “John is feeling bad. You’re feeling unsure about yourself. Both of you are stressing out for nothing. I can narrate it, or John could show you. You decide.”

“Show him?” John asked.

“The room is safe,” Sherlock continued, paying him no mind. “I searched everywhere. I hear his steps, coming closer, then going away again. I know he’ll be back. It takes him thirteen minutes to give up looking for me. I estimate we have less than an hour. He’s back. I make my move.”

John frowned at him. Sherlock returned the look serenely. “Go to him, John. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Kiss the man. He needs it. You need it.”

“And you?”

“Enjoy it,” Sherlock answered, fire in his eyes. “Would enjoy it immensely.”

John closed his eyes for a second. Okay. Fine. He got up.

“He grasped my arm,” he said. “Drew me into the room. Locked the door. Kissed me. Shall I show you how?”

Sherlock nodded, a small, jerky movement, so John did.

Outside, the day turned into evening. John didn’t stop showing him. And little by little, the tension in Sherlock’s body melted away.

But John didn’t show him how the meeting in Greg’s office had ended. When that would happen, it needed to be something else than imitation. Something truer. Something meant for just him.

And even without asking, John was sure Sherlock would agree with him. Both of them.


	27. Interlude V

Another night in 221B Baker Street. Three men lay crammed in one bed, the middle one fast asleep. The two others reclined on both sides of him, their fingers tented under their chins, their minds troubled. Every few seconds, a gentle snore from the middle man disappeared into the peaceful darkness of the room, prompting one of the others to attempt a glare at him.  
”You’re restless.”

”So are you, so do stop being smug about it.”

Now glares were thrown on both directions over the blissfully unaware middle man.

”Of course I am. But unlike you, I have very good reason to be. There’s hardly an interdimensional army, plus a potential freelance assassin, after you.”

”Ha. It’s just Mycroft.”

”Of course it’s not ’just Mycroft’. But enough of him for the day. I refuse to think about him any more. But, self, listen to me here. I’ve seen enough of you two being blind idiots to understand what’s going on here. And he knows it too. It’s okay.”

The other man dived under the blankets and turned his back. ”I cannot believe you’re saying that. Not after today.”

His companion didn’t seem to hear. He stared at the ceiling over his tented fingers, continued speaking evenly. ”It’s okay to need a little time.”

A spot of messy hair peeked out from under the blankets, followed by incoherent mumbling.

”Pardon me?”

”Have you deleted our date of birth along with your common sense?” The blanket demanded. ”Time is everything I’ve had.”

”No,” the other man replied coolly. ”Your time has only just begun. What happens between him and me doesn’t transfer to you. How could it? Do you really think him so thick he doesn’t understand the difference? When has he ever been anything but understanding towards us?”

A long, red, and above all sour face reappeared. The words came in a venomous whisper.

”I don’t want his understanding.”

”No. But you need it. Just as I need other things from him. Stop comparing, self. It’s pointless and harmful. Just trust us. Trust yourself.”

The man in the middle, the one who had honed his skill of sleeping even in the busiest of environments during years spent in hospitals and then the army, turned onto his side and threw his arm over his hiding companion. He and the other one stilled immediately. Nothing more was said for several minutes until the sleeping man’s breathing had evened out again.

”Anyway, this discussion is over,” whispered the one now being tightly hugged. ”You owe me one for this. So, you and Mycroft. Explain.”

The other one huffed and shook his head.

”He’s the most insufferable, obnoxious, prying, overbearing -”

”I get the point. I also agree. But that doesn't quite explain your general reaction to him. I mean, I want to get as far away from him as possible as well, and yet seeing him doesn't actually send me crying into John's trousers.”

”He can ruin my whole month just by saying a couple of words.”

”Ditto.”

”He's under this misconception that just because we are relatives, I'm obliged to listen to him.”

”Isn't he ever.”

”His dress taste is terrible.”

”Now you aren't even trying anymore.”

”What my love is trying to say,” interrupted the middle man, who apparently wasn't quite as far gone as he had appeared to be, ”is that the Mycroft over there is an insensitive bastard with a history of familial abuse as a cherry on the top. Sherlock is not going back there. Did you hear me? You aren't going back there. I won't allow it.”

”Yes,” the man addressed sighed. ”And I know that you'll do absolutely everything in your power to stop that. But so will he. In his eyes, I'm his to protect and lord over.”

A gloomy silence set between them. A long time passed, huddled together under the warm covers.

”When we were young,” one of them whispered at last, ”I used to go to him at night when I couldn't sleep.”

”He had his bed in the darkest corner of the room,” his double continued, nodding. ”Between him and the wall I knew nothing could get to me.”

”He hated it when I went there.”

”But he never sent me away. Even when his neck was all cramped up in the morning.” There was a hint of a smile in that voice. They were all smiling now, moving restlessly against each other.

”Get over here.”

It was the middle man, tugging at his companion until he had him positioned to his liking, flat on his back. Then he climbed over him and pushed until the other one wriggled into the middle of the bed.

”John.”

”Shh. There's a wall on both sides of you now. No monster will get you tonight. Sleep well, love, and let us worry about the cramping necks.”

Some fidgeting ensued until they had all found good positions, legs and arms thrown over the new middle man. Little by little, tension left their tired bodies and their breathing eased back into sleep. The old house was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the last regular chapter for a while. I've about depleted my summer writing and The Work is as demanding as ever. I'll try to get one chapter out a month. We'll see how that goes.


End file.
